THE  HEEDLESS  EXPOSURE. 


VILLAGE   LIFE   IN    THE    WEST. 


BEYOND  THE  BREAKERS 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PRESENT  DAY. 


BY 


ROBERT    DALE    OWEN. 


From  seeming  evil  still  educing  good, 
And  better  yet  again  and  better  still, 
In  infinite  progression." 

THOMSON. 


PHILADELPHIA 
J.   B.   LIPPINCOTT    &    CO. 

1870. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1870,  by 

'*i  ,fe/j,iPPi&ct>:rT;$  <:cf., 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the'Unitec!  States,*  for  the  Eastern  District  of  Pennsylvania. 


LIPPINCOTT'S  PRESS, 
PHILADELPHIA. 


*sir 

8  97S 


TO  AN   EXCELLENT   FRIEND, 


IN  WHOSE  LIBRARY  THE  FIRST  OF  THE  FOLLOWING  CHAPTERS  WAS  WRITTEN, 


FERDINAND    J.   DREER,   OF   PHILADELPHIA, 


THIS    STORY 


IS    INSCRIBED. 


M182184 


BEYOND  THE  BREAKERS. 


"From  seeming  evil  still  educing  good; 
And  better  thence  again,  and  better  still, 
In  infinite  progression."  THOMSON. 


CHAPTER  I. 
THE  ACCUSATION. 

IT  was  in  the  old  days,  now  almost 
forgotten,  when  bits  of  gold  and  sil 
ver  passed  current  among  us  as  money. 
As  we  mortals  reckon  time,  it  was  some 
twelve  or  fourteen  years  ago,  but  if  one 
estimates  by  thick-crowding  events  and 
revolutions,  social  and  political,  there 
has  passed  a  generation  since  the  inci 
dents  that  are  to  be  related  occurred 
in  the  sober  Quaker  State  of  Pennsyl 
vania. 

One  cold,  rainy  evening,  late  in  the 
spring,  there  sauntered  into  a  tavern  kept 
in  Water  street,  Philadelphia,  a  man  not 
beyond  middle  age  and  somewhat  shab 
bily  dressed.  It  was  a  tavern,  not  only  in 
the  strict  old  sense  of  the  term — to  wit,  a 
resort  of  the  thirsty,  where  wines  and 
sundry  hot  potations  might  be  had  at  re 
tail,  as  eighteen  hundred  years  ago  they 
were  in  the  thermopolia  of  Pompeii 
(whose  marble  tabula  are  cup-stained 
still) — but  also  taken  according  to  the 
modernized  American  phraseology  ;  for 
its  hearty,  bright-eyed  owner  furnished 


to  the  emigrant  and  to  the  chance  trav 
eler  board  and  lodging,  as  well  as  grog 
and  punch.  Terence  O'Reilly  was  an 
Irishman,  every  inch  of  him  :  one  saw 
that  at  a  glance.  The  high  cheek-bones, 
the  ruddy  color,  the  touch  of  the  brogue, 
came  unmistakably  from  the  Green 
Island.  The  world  had  gone  well  with 
Terence.  He  liked  it  :  he  thoroughly 
enjoyed  life,  and  sought  to  make  it  as 
pleasant  to  others  as  to  himself.  He 
had  selected  a  sorry  mode  of  doing  so, 
it  is  true,  not  being  satisfied  to  dispense 
Cowper's  cups  that  "  cheer  but  not  in 
ebriate."  I  dare  say  he  had  not  heard 
Gough  lecture,  and  probably  had  never 
taken  a  serious  thought  as  to  whether 
the  world  was  the  better  or  the  worse 
for  the  gin  and  the  whisky  that  are  made 
in  it.  He  had  imbibed,  with  his  hardy 
mother's  milk,  her  careless,  thoughtless, 
hopeful  temperament.  His  father,  hail- 
fell  ow-well-met  with  every  one,  had  not 
improved  his  son's  habits  by  suffering 
him,  when  he  had  outgrown  the  mater 
nal  beverage,  occasionally  to  taste  a  lit 
tle  of  the  potheen  that  had  the  sweet 
ness  of  stolen  waters  about  it,  being 

9 


10- 


OXD  THE  BREAKERS. 


manufactured  of  nights  in  a  small  under 
ground  still,  of  which  the  masked  en 
trance  could  be  reached  only  through  the 
intricacies  of  an  Irish  bog,  and  so  had 
escaped,  for  years,  the  argus-eyed  reve 
nue  officers.  The  lad  grew  up  light- 
hearted,  jovial,  but  not  intemperate,  nor 
yet  without  a  wholesome  ambition  to 
better  his  condition,  and  attain  the  res 
pectability  which  he  saw  that  money  was 
wont  to  bring. 

His  first  step  in  life  had  been  as  hos 
tler  in  a  country  inn.  There  the  hard 
working  fellow  served  faithfully,  finally 
attracting  the  attention  of  a  young  offi 
cer  in  the  Guards,  the  eldest  son  of  the 
Honorable  Patrick  Halloran,  a  wealthy 
landed  proprietor,  on  whose  property 
Terence's  father  lived.  Captain  Hallo- 
ran,  pleased  with  the  lad's  spirit  and  good- 
humor,  took  him  into  his  service  as 
groom,  promoting  him,  in  gay  livery,  to 
a  seat  behind  his  stylish  curricle  when 
he  drove  that  fine-stepping  pair  of  black- 
limbed  bays  of  his  in  Hyde  Park.  It 
was  not  a  situation  to  improve  the  young 
groom's  morals  ;  for  those  of  his  master 
were  none  of  the  best,  especially  in  his 
relations  with  women  ;  and  the  white- 
cravatted,  black-clothed  valet  whom  the 
Captain  had  picked  up  in  Paris,  and  who 
stood  high  in  his  confidence,  pandered  to 
vices  from  which  the  scoundrel  well 
knew  how  to  profit.  But  here  again,  as 
in  the  article  of  potheen,  Terence  es 
caped  any  serious  contamination.  This 
happened  partly  because  of  the  fact  that 
though  the  young  man's  ideas  on  ethics 
were  of  the  vaguest  sort,  he  had  a  sturdy, 
rude-fashioned  sense  of  the  fair  and  the 
honorable  ;  partly  because  he  had  an  in 
born  dislike  of  anything  French,  and 
barely  tolerated  his  fellow-servant,  who, 
on  his  part,  looked  down  with  supreme 
contempt  on  the- rough  young  Irishman. 

Had  Terence  been  less  of  a  favorite 
with  Captain  Halloran,  this  mutual  aver 
sion  would  probably  have  cost  him  his 
place  within  the  first  few  months  ;  but 
Louis  Villemont  —  so  the  valet  was 
called — was  a  man  to  bide  his  time,  and 
let  his  revenge  sleep  till  the  moment 
came  when  it  could  be  safely  indulged. 
He  was  rewarded  for  his  patience  after 


enduring  Terence  nearly  a  year  and  a 
half.  Reckless  self-indulgence,  long  con 
tinued,  readily  hardens  into  vice  when 
the  tempter  is  at  hand  to  encourage  and 
facilitate.  So  it  was  with  Captain  Hal 
loran.  Aided  and  prompted  by  Louis, 
he  committed  an  act  of  villainy  from 
which,  in  the  early  part  of  his  career  as 
a  young  man  of  fashion,  he  would  have 
shrunk  with  abhorrence.  His  victim,  an 
interesting  and  accomplished  young  girl, 
fled,  one  night,  in  an  agony  of  despair, 
no  one  knew  whither.  Terence,  getting 
to  know  the  main  facts,  and  stirred  by 
that  spirit  of  rude  chivalry  which  is  not 
unfrequently  found  in  his  class  and  na 
tion,  broke  forth  upon  Louis,  calling  him 
names  which  caused  the  Frenchman's 
dark  eyes  to  flash  with  fury  ;  and  not 
satisfied  with  that,  his  indignation  once 
fairly  roused,  he  proceeded  to  denounce 
the  master  himself  in  no  measured  terms. 
Thereupon  Louis'  wrath  subsided  into  a 
sinister  smile.  "  Tu  me  le  payeras,"  he 
muttered  under  his  breath,  as  his  mas 
ter's  bell  rung.  Half  an  hour  later  he 
returned,  and,  with  a  civil  leer,  handed 
the  groom  his  wages  to  date,  with  a 
handsome  gratuity  and  a  message  from 
Captain  Halloran  that  he  had  no  further 
occasion  for  his  services.  Terence  found 
himself  possessor  of  a  sum  sufficient  to 
pay  a  steerage  passage  to  New  York,  and 
leave  him  a  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  to 
begin  life  with  in  the  New  World.  Nor, 
up  to  this  stormy  May  evening,  had  he 
ever  once  had  cause  to  repent  his  change 
of  country. 

The  shabby  stranger  sat  by  the  stove, 
leaning  forward,  drying  himself;  his 
white  hands  (for  they  were  white)  rest 
ing  on  his  knees,  and  gleaming  through 
the  dull  steam  that  rose  from  his  wet 
clothes.  Handsome,  most  people  would 
have  called  him  ;  yet  it  was  a  bad  coun 
tenance,  furtive  and  gloomy.  The  large 
gray  eyes  were  well  formed,  but  they 
seemed  not  to  look  straight  at  any  one  ; 
the  features  well  cut ;  brown  curling  hair 
and  whiskers  of  the  same  color.  One 
could  see,  however,  that  there  was  power 
about  the  man.  Though  the  forehead 
was  low,  it  was  a  fair-sized  head,  fully 
developed  above  the  eyes  and  behind  the 


BETOND  THE  BREAKERS. 


i  r 


large  ears,  of  which  one  was  somewhat 
disfigured  by  a  purple  line  across  it,  as 
from  an  old  wound.  The  features  bore 
the  stamp  of  self-indulgence  and  some 
thing  of  the  flush  of  dissipation.  A 
sullen  frown  passed  over  them  from  time 
to  time,  prompted,  it  was  evident,  by 
thoughts  that  were  anything  but  pleasant. 

After  a  time  he  rose  and  approached 
the  bar.  "A  glass  of  grog,  landlord," 
he  said  :  «  I  want  it  stiff.  A  hell  of  a 
wet  night  I've  had  of  it !" 

"In  a  minute,"  replied  the  other: 
then  to  a  man  with  whom  he  had  been 
conversing:  "You  haven't  got  that  last 
sack  of  potatoes  down  :  how  much  is 
the  bill,  altogether  ?" 

"  Seventeen  dollars  and  a  half,  Ter 
ence  ;  but  I  don't  want  the  money  now 
if  it  isn't  just  handy." 

"  Never  handier,"  said  Terence.  "  I 
don't  buy  till  I  have  the  cash  ready." 
And  producing,,  from  an  inner  breast 
pocket  a  stout  linen  bag,  he  poured  on 
the  counter  its  entire  contents,  consist 
ing  of.  a  number  of  eagles,  together  with 
a  few  half-eagles  and  bank-bills.  "Is  it 
gold  you'll  be  wanting  ?" 

"  Well,"  said  the  other,  "  city  bills  are 
good  enough,  but  I'm  going  South  to 
morrow,  and  you  may  as  well  give  me  a 
couple  of  those  half-eagles." 

"  Heartily  welcome,"  said  Terence, 
paying  him,  and  taking  a  receipt  in  re 
turn. 

If  the  two  men  who  happened  at  the 
moment  to  be  the  only  occupants  of 
the  bar-room  except  the  stranger,  had 
chanced  to  notice  the  eager,  sidelong, 
persistent  look  which  the  latter  cast  on 
the  gold  that  still  lay  scattered  on  the 
counter,  it  might  have  been  interpreted 
to  his  discredit ;  yet  one  ought  not  to 
think  hard  of  the  hungry  vagrant  who, 
as  he  passes  the  brilliantly-lighted  win 
dow  of  a  pastry  cook's  shop,  casts  wist 
ful  glances  at  tart  and  cheese-cake. 

As  it  was,  Terence  was  scarcely  con 
scious  of  the  man's  presence,  until  the 
latter  repeated  his  request  for  a  glass  of 
brandy  and  water. 

"  Faith,  an'  I  clane  forgot  ye,"  he 
said,  pouring  out  a  liberal  portion,  as 
if  to  atone  for  the  delay. 


The  man  tossed  off  the  potent  dram 
with  a  relish. 

Several  lodgers  came  in.  Then  he 
asked :  "  Can  I  put  up  with  you,  Mr. 
O'Reilly,  to-night  ?" 

Terence  stopped  in  the  act  of  closing 
the  bag  whence  he  had  poured  the  gold, 
looked  hard  at  the  questioner,  and  hesi 
tated.  The  man  spoke,  as  if  in  answer 
to  the  hesitation  : 

"You  wouldn't  be  turning  a  poor  man, 
and  a  countryman  of  your  own,  out  in 
a  stormy  night  like  this  ?  I'm  from 
Tipperary." 

"What's  your  name  ?" 

"  My  name  ?  —  Byron  —  Byron  Cassi- 
day." 

"Well,  Bryan—" 

"  It's  Byron,  not  Bryan,  I  told  you," 
retorted  the  other,  more  sharply  than  the 
occasion  seemed  to  call  for. 

"  Well,  Byron,  then  :  ye  needn't  flare 
up.  Bryan's  a  better  Irish  name,  any 
way." 

"  If  you're  afraid  of  the  pay,  there's 
my  watch,"  pulling  a  silver  one  from  his 
fob. 

"  Who  said  I  was  afraid  ?  Put  up 
your  watch.  It's  an  ugly  night,  and  I'll 
not  turn  you  from  the  door,"  pushing  the 
register  toward  him,  in  which  the  man 
entered  his  name,  with  the  address, 
"  Port  Richmond,"  and  the  remark : 
"  I've  been  working  in  the  country,  but 
I  came  last  from  Port  Richmond." 

"  He  can  write,  any  how,"  said  the 
landlord  to  himself,  glancing  at  the  name : 
"maybe  he's  dacent  ;"  and  he  led  the 
way  to  a  small  bed-room,  setting  a  can 
dlestick  on  the  washstand. 

Left  alone,  Cassiday  sat  down  on  a 
straight -backed,  rush-bottomed  chair, 
tilted  it  back  against  the  bed,  and  sank 
into  moody  thought.  Half  an  hour 
passed  ere  he  stirred.  At  last,  mutter 
ing,  "A  man  must  do  something  for  a 
living :  nothing  venture,  nothing  have," 
he  rose  and  examined  the  fastenings  of 
the  bed-room  door.  There  was  a  lock, 
with  the  key  inside.  It  locked  readily, 
but  that  did  not  seem  to  satisfy  him. 
Unlocking  it,  he  wrenched  the  key  for 
cibly  to  the  left.  Something  snapped. 
Then  he  tried  repeatedly  to  lock  the 


BEYOND  THE  BREAKERS. 


door  again,  but  failed  each  time.  The 
lock  was  evidently  spoilt.  Finally  he 
relinquished  all  effort  to  secure  the  door, 
took  the  candlestick  from  the  washstand 
and  placed  it  on  the  floor  of  the  passage 
outside,  undressed  partially,  and,  after 
tossing  restlessly  for  an  hour  or  two, 
and  gazing  occasionally  around  the  room, 
dropped  into  a  heavy  sleep. 

Next  morning,  after  breakfast,  he  was 
again  in  the  bar-room,  where  he  sat 
watching  the  demeanor  of  his  landlord. 
Terence  was  behind  the  counter,  ex 
changing  jest  and  banter  with  two  or 
three  early  customers,  and  his  bold 
cheery  voice  rung  out  from  a  happy  and 
careless  heart.  The  embodiment  of 
good-humor,  he  was,  notwithstanding,  a 
man  whom  it  might  be  dangerous  to  irri 
tate.  There  was  a  flash  in  his  laughing 
eye,  and  his  broad  shoulders  and  brawny, 
large-fisted  arms  would  not  have  dis 
graced  the  prize-ring. 

Cassiday  eyed  him  closely,  seeming 
about  to  address  him  ;  then,  as  if  he  had 
thought  better  of  it,  sauntered  around 
the  room,  examining  various  marvels  of 
art  with  which  it  was  adorned.  •  In  the 
centre  of  the  principal  wall  was  "  Wash 
ington's  Deathbed,"  the  garments  and 
the  countenances  of  the  attendants  alike 
lugubrious  ;  and  this  was  flanked,  on  the 
one  side,  by  a  portrait  of  the  wonderful 
horse  with  white  legs — the  pride  of  the 
English  race-course  —  that  was  foaled 
during  the  great  eclipse,  taking  his  name 
from  his  birth-day  ;  and  on  the  other  by 
a  print  setting  forth,  in  startling  colors, 
the  fight  between  Crib  and  Molineux — 
that  Crib,  as  the  landlord  delighted  in 
relating,  who  at  the  close  of  a  fair  stand- 
up  fight,  in  which  he  had  battered  in 
three  ribs  of  the  black  giant  that  was 
pitted  against  him,  turned  a  standing 
somerset  on  the  ground,  in  proof  that 
wind  and  pluck  were  alike  untouched  by 
the  exertions  of  the  terrible  contest. 

Finally,  when  he  had  sufficiently  ad 
mired  these  ambitious  productions  of 
fancy,  and  when  all  the  customers  had 
departed,  the  stranger  slowly  approached 
the  counter. 

"I  wish  I  had  stayed  in  the  country," 
he  began. 


"  I  didn't  ax  ye  to  leave  it,"  said 
Terence.  "  What's  the  matter  ?" 

«  Matter  enough  !  Bad  luck  to  your 
city  taverns  !" 

"  Ye're  uncivil,  stranger :  ye  had  a 
clean  bed  and  a  good  breakfast,"  his 
color  rising.  «  If  the  accommodations 
don't  suit  you,  pay  for  what  ye've  had 
and  be  off  with  ye." 

" I've  paid  pretty  dearly  for  them 
already." 

"  What  does  that  mean  ?" 

«  It  means  that  when  I  went  up  to 
your  bed-room  last  night  I  had  a  hun 
dred  and  seventy  dollars  in  my  pocket, 
and  that  I  came  down  this  morning  with 
just  ten  cents  to  pay  for  my  night's 
lodging." 

Terence  flushed  scarlet,  but  he  re 
strained  himself: 

"Oh,  that's  the  dodge,  is  it?  I 
thought  the  chance  was  a  poor  one,  but 
ye  looked  tired  and  wet.  Well,  it's  only 
a  half  dollar  thrown  away.  A  hundred 
and  seventy  dollars,  and  ye  wanted  to 
pledge  your  watch  !  Why,  man,  ye 
should  make  one  part  o'  your  story 
tally  wi'  the  rest." 

"It  tallies  well  enough.  Do  you 
think  I  was  going  to  show  my  hand  be 
fore  all  your  lodgers  ?  It  wasn't  quite 
safe,  it  seems,  to  let  them  know  there 
was  a  hundred  and  seventy  dollars  to 
be  had  in  my  bed-room  for  the  fetching 
of  it." 

"Look  ye  here,  Mister  Cassiday," 
said  the  landlord,  "you'd  best  be  gone 
while  the  play's  good.  I  ought  to  send 
for  a  police  officer  and  have  ye  taken  up 
for  a  swindler  ;  and  I  will,  if  you  say 
another  word  about  my  lodgers.  I  ex 
pect  the  next  thing  will  be,  you'll  be 
telling  me  I  stole  it  myself." 

"  Likelier-looking  men  than  you  have 
done  the  same  before  now.  I  advise 
you  to  bridle  your  tongue,  or  maybe 
you  may  make  acquaintance  with  the 
police  yourself,  sooner  than  you  think 
for." 

Terence  just  touched  the  counter  with 
his  left  hand,  and  was  over  in  a  single 
bound.  With  the  right  he  throttled  his 
man,  forced  him  back,  as  though  he  had 
but  a  child  in  his  grasp,  to  the  street 


BEYOND  THE  BREAKERS. 


door,  which  he  flung  open,  and  there  re 
leased  him,  at  the  same  moment  dealing 
him  a  hearty  kick,  which  sent  him  stag 
gering  down  the  steps,  over  the  sidewalk 
and  half-way  across  the  street,  where  he 
fell  prostrate,  but  where,  luckily  for  him, 
no  vehicle  was  just  then  passing.  The 
whole  transpired  in  less  time  than  it  has 
taken  to  relate  it. 


CHAPTER  II.  ' 
THE  ARREST. 

AN  hour  and  a  half  had  elapsed  ;  and 
Terence,  the  scuffle  of  the  morning  al 
ready  forgotten,  was  standing  at  the 
street  door,  somewhat  anxiously  await 
ing  the  arrival  of  the  owner  of  the  house 
he  occupied,  with  whom  he  hoped,  that 
morning,  to  conclude  a  purchase  of  the 
premises,  when  a  police  officer  stopped 
before  the  door.  A  cloth  cap,  turned  up 
with  gray  fur,  which  the  young  man 
wore,  seemed  to  attract  the  attention  of 
the  officer,  who,  after  eyeing  him  for  a 
few  moments,  said  :  "  Is  this  Terence 
O'Reilly  ?" 

"At  your  service."  Then,  as  the 
other  hesitated,  he  added,  cheerily,  «  It's 
sort  o'  chilly,  if  it  is  'most  summer. 
Come  in  and  warm  yourself." 

The  officer  entered :  Terence  drew  a 
chair  for  him  before  the  stove,  and  they 
sat  down  together. 

"  I'm  sorry,"  the  policeman  said,  after 
a  pause — "  I  think  there  must  be  some 
mistake — but — I  have  a  warrant  for  your 
arrest." 

"  A  warrant !"  Then,  with  a  smile  : 
"  Oh,  for  'sault  and  battery.  So  the 
rascal  bears  malice,  does  he  ?  Well,  if 
he  didn't  deserve  the  kick  I  gave  him, 
nobody  ever  did." 

«  I  wish  it  were  nothing  else,"  said  the 
officer,  gravely  ;  "  but  it's  on  a  charge 
of  larceny.  The  man  lodged  information 
at  our  station  that  you  robbed  him  last 
night  of  a  hundred  and  seventy  dollars." 

For  a  moment  the  poor  man  was 
utterly  confounded.  But  he  rallied: 
"  It's  me  lodgers  he  charges  it  on.  But 
a  man  isn't  a  thief  because  money's 
stolen  in  his  house." 


"  He  didn't  say  a  word  about  your 
lodgers.  He  swore,  point-blank,  that 
you  came  into  his  room  in  the  middle 
of  the  night  and  took  his  money,  and 
that  he  saw  you  and  knew  you." 

«  The  Lord  above  !" 

"  I'll  have  to  take  you  before  the 
mayor." 

Terence  sprung  from  his  chair.  The 
officer  also  started  up  and  stood  between 
the  door  and  his  prisoner,  but  the  latter 
did  not  even  notice  the  action.  He  had 
turned  to  a  lad  who  was  tending  bar  for 
him : 

"  Pat,  d'ye  like  my  service  ?" 

"  Is  it  your  service,  Mister  O'Reilly  ? 
And  don't  ye  know  I  do  ?  I'd  go  through 
fire  and  water  for  ye." 

"  I'll  never  forgive  ye  the  longest  day 
I  live — I'll  send  ye  packing  afore  the 
day's  out — if  you  say  one  word  o'  this 
to  Norah.  It  would  kill  the  lassie." 
Then  to  the  officer  :  "  At  your  service." 

They  walked  some  distance  in  silence. 
At  last  O'Reilly  asked  : 

«  Can  they  send  a  man  to  prison  for  a 
thief,  that  never  did  a  dishonest  thing 
since  the  day  his  mother  bore  him  ?" 

The  question  was  a  deeper  one  than 
the  young  man  thought  for.  The  officer 
evaded  it  :  "A  man  that's  accused  of 
larceny  need  not  go  to  prison  till  he's 
tried  and  convicted.  This  is  a  prelimi 
nary  investigation,  and  they'll  take  bail."- 

"  They  must  prove  it  on  him,  then  ?" 

"  Certainly." 

Terence  stepped  out  more  freely — 
almost  with  unconcern.  But  at  the 
mayor's  office  there  was  delay  till  sev 
eral  petty  charges  were  disposed  of;  and 
these,  with  their  sordid  details,  some 
what  sunk  the  poor  fellow's  spirits  again. 
He  felt  the  humiliation  of  the  associa 
tions  into  which,  for  the  first  time,  he 
had  been  brought,  and  he  looked  some 
what  dispirited  when  placed  at  the  bar. 

«  Is  this  the  charge  of  larceny  ?"  said 
the  mayor. 

"  Yes,  your  honor." 

"  Has  the  prisoner  been  searched  ?" 

"  No."  The  officer  proceeded  to 
search  him,  and  the  bag  of  money  with 
which  we  are  already  familiar  was  taken 
from  an  inner  pocket. 


BEYOND  THE  BREAKERS. 


Cassiday  was  then  called  as  witness. 
Terence  started  as  the  man  came  for 
ward  ;  then  involuntarily  drew  up  first 
one  sleeve  and  then  the  other,  exposing, 
as  he  did  so,  a  ring  of  white  on  each 
wrist  above  the  large,  tanned  hands. 
The  mayor's  quick  eye  detected  the 
movement,  and  he  turned  to  the  officer 
apparently  to  give  an  order  ;  then  glan 
cing  again  at  the  prisoner,  from  whose 
face  the  flush  of  anger  was  fading,  he 
seemed  to  think  better  of  it,  and  merely 
said  to  the  witness,  "  Go  on." 

Cassiday  deposed  that,  the  previous 
night,  he  had  lodged  in  No.  36,  a  small 
front  hall  bed-room  on  the  third  floor  of 
the  house  kept  by  the  prisoner  ;  that  in 
the  middle  of  the  night  he  had  been 
awakened  by  the  sound  of  some  one 
moving  about  in  his  room  ;  that  he  re 
cognized  the  prisoner  by  his  general  ap 
pearance,  but  especially  by  his  cloth  cap 
trimmed  with  fur ;  that  at  the  moment 
he  first  saw  him  the  prisoner  was  stoop 
ing  over  a  chair,  just  beyond  the  wash- 
stand,  where  he  (the  deponent)  had  laid 
his  coat  before  going  to  bed  ;  that  he 
(the  prisoner)  remained  for  some  time 
in  this  stooping  position,  as  if  searching 
for  something,  then  turned  to  the  wash- 
stand,  so  that  he  (the  deponent)  could 
distinctly  see  his  side  face,  took  up  a 
candlestick  which  was  standing  there, 
and  passed  out  of  the  room  on  tiptoe  ; 
that  in  the  inside  pocket  of  the  coat  he 
(the  deponent)  had  a  hundred  and  sev 
enty  dollars  in  a  stout  linen  sack,  and  all 
in  gold  eagles,  which,  on  rising  after 
ward  to  search  his  coat,  he  found  was 
gone. 

Terence  sat  like  one  in  a  stupor,  till 
awakened  by  a  question  of  the  mayor 
addressed  to  the  witness  : 

«  Did  you  lock  your  door  before  go 
ing  to  rest  ?" 

"  No  ;  I  tried  to,  but  I  found  the  lock 
wouldn't  work." 

«  That's  a  lie  !"  burst  forth  Terence. 
«  Divil  a  lock  out  of  order  in  my  house 
from  garret  to  cellar  !" 

"Wait  your  turn,  prisoner,"  said  the 
mayor,  a  little  sternly:  "you  shall  be 
heard  in  defence."  Then  to  the  wit- 


"  You  say  you  saw  the  prisoner.  Had 
you  left  your  candle  burning  ?  There 
was  no  moon  last  night,  I  think." 

« No,  your  honor,  but  there  was  a 
lamp  in  the  street  just  opposite,  and 
there  was  no  curtain  to  the  window  ;  so 
I  could  see  well  enough." 

"Why  did  not  you  stop  him  and  raise 
the  alarm  at  once  ?" 

"  I  was  scared,  just  waking  up,  and 
I  was  afraid  he  might  murder  me  if  I 
stirred." 

The  contempt  on  the  prisoners  bold, 
frank  face  was  something  refreshing  to 
see.  "  The  chicken-sowled,  perjured  vil 
lain  !"  he  muttered,  under  his  breath. 

"  Look  at  that  money-bag,"  said  the 
mayor  to  the  witness  :  "  is  it  the  one 
you  had  ?" 

After  what  seemed  a  careful  examina 
tion  the  man  answered  "  No." 
"  Officer,  see  what  it  contains." 
Seventeen  gold  eagles,  ten  half-eagles 
and  twenty-two  dollars  in  bank-notes — 
two    hundred    and    forty-two  dollars    in 
all — were  the  contents. 

"Prisoner,  where  did  you  get  these 
seventeen  eagles  ?" 

"A  peddler  paid   me  fifteen  of  them, 
to-morrow  will  be  a  week." 
"  For  what  ?" 

"  For  a  gold  watch  and  chain  and  some 
jewelry." 

"  How  came  you  to  have  a  watch  and 
jewelry  for  sale  ?" 

"  Sure,  an'  I  took  them  from  one  of 
me  boarders,  for  a  debt  of  two  hundred 
and  twenty  dollars,  bein'  I  could  get 
nothin'  else." 

"And  you  have  kept   the  money  in 
that  bag  in  your  pocket  ever  since  ?" 
"  Till  this  blessed  day,  yer  honor." 
"Was     any    one    present   when    you 
traded  with  the  peddler  ?" 

"  I  disremember  exactly,  but  I  think 
not." 

"What  was  his  name  !" 
"  I  never  axed  him." 
The  mayor  reflected,  then  made  a  few 
memoranda  in  pencil  and  handed  them 
to  the  police  officer:   "Bring   me  word 
whether  the  lock  in  room  36  of  the  house 
occupied  by  the  prisoner  works  well  or 
not.     Observe  whether   the  window  of 


BETOND  THE  BREAKERS. 


that  room  has  a  curtain,  and  whether 
is  opposite  to  a  street  lamp.  Then  as 
the  chambermaid  of  the  house  if  sh 
found  a  candlestick  in  No.  36  when  sh 
went  to  make  the  bed.  Prisoner,  w 
shall  have  to  detain  you  till  the  office 
returns.  In  any  event,  the  offence  yo 
are  charged  with  is  bailable,  and  yo 
may  send  by  him  for  any  of  your  friend 
in  case  bail  is  required." 

In  an  hour  the  police  officer  returnee 
reporting  that  the  lock  of  No.  36  woulc 
not  work,  that  the  window  of  that  room 
was  uncurtained,  that  there  was  a  street 
lamp  just  opposite  to  it,  and  that  the 
chambermaid  declared  that  when  she 
went,  after  breakfast,  to  do  up  the  room 
instead  of  finding  the  candlestick  there 
as  she  expected,  it  was  on  the  floor  of 
the  passage  outside. 

After  listening  to  this  report,  the 
mayor  again  called  up  the  case,  askec 
the  prisoner  what  he  had  to  say  for  him 
self,  listened  patiently  to  his  vague,  in 
coherent  protestations  of  innocence,  and 
then  ordered  that  he  find  bail  for  his  ap 
pearance  to  stand  trial  at  the  next  term 
for  larceny,  and  that  the  money-bag  and 
its  contents  be  meanwhile  retained. 
Two  of  his  associates,  whom  he  had  re 
luctantly  sent  for,  came  eagerly  forward 
with  the  requisite  bail,  and  Terence  was 
released. 

Among  his  friends  once  more,  Ter 
ence  soon  regained,  in  a  measure,  the 
habitual  flow  of  high  spirits  which  had 
contributed  to  make  him  the  general  fa 
vorite  he  was. 

«  Norah,"  he  said  to  his  wife,  from 
whom  it  had  been  impossible  to  conceal 
the  transaction—"  Norah,  me  darlint,  is 
it  cryin'  ye  are  ?  Hold  up  your  head. 
Ye  know  yer  husband  isn't  a  thief.  Ye 
would  swear  to  that  any  day,  wouldn't 
ye,  mavourneen  ?" 

The  young  wife  threw  her  arms  about 
his  neck,  hid  her  face  on  his  shoulder 
and  sobbed  out:  "Afore  the  throne 
o'  God,  Terence— afore  the  throne  o' 
God  !" 

"  Then  she's  the  true  grit,"  said  her 
husband,  kissing  her.  «  Now  hearken  to 
what  I  tell  ye  :  I  axed  that  officer— he 
was  a  dacent  man,  Norah,  and  a  civil- 


spoken,  if  he  was  a  policeman— I  axed 
him  could  they  put  the  darbies  on  and 
make  a  prison-bird  o'  me— me  that  never 
stole  a  red  cent  in  me  life.  And  he  said, 
says  he,  'No,  SIR,  they  can't;  they 
dar'n't  touch  a  hair  of  yer  head  till  they 
prove  it  on  ye.'  Them  was  his  very 
words.  An'  sure  ye  know,  Norah,  that 
they  can't  prove  what  never  was.  Could 
they  prove  that  I  wasn't  yer  lagel  hus 
band,  acushla,  or  that  them  two  children 
ye  bore  me  wasn't  mine  ?  Tell  me  that !" 
That  was  putting  the  case  strongly, 
but  the  wife's  lingering  fears  suggested  a 
contingency : 

"  What  if  that  bad  man  swears  a  lie 
to  get  yer  money  ?" 

"And  isn't  there  the  judge  sittin'  on 
the  bench,  with  his  gown  and  his  larn- 
in'  ?"  (Terence's  ideas  of  judicial  dig 
nity  were  somewhat  old-country-fash 
ioned.)  «  D'ye  think  a  low,  lyin'  scoun 
drel  like  that  can  chate  him  out  o'  the 
face  ?" 

So  Norah  dried  her  eyes  and  was 
comforted.  For  didn't  Terence  know 
best? 

Six  weeks  later  the  trial  came  on  be 
fore  Judge  Oswald  Thomas.  He  wore 
neither  wig  nor  gown,  but,  as  he  turned 
to  look  at  the  prisoner  who  had  just 
taken  his  place  in  the  dock,  Terence's 
heart  was  lightened  of  a  load  :  it  was 
an  honest,  kind-hearted  face.  "  It's  all 
right,"  was  his  thought,  and  that  helped 
to  bear  up  under  the  infliction  of  the 
Dublic  gaze. 

The  usual  question  as  to  whether  he 
was  guilty  or  not  guilty  was  repeated 
twice  before  Terence  had  collected  his 
senses  to  answer  :  "  Is  it  whether  I  stole 
he  money  ?  The  rascal  knows  I  never 
did." 

A  smile  passed  over  the  audience  as 
he  clerk  recorded  the  plea  "  Not  Guilty." 
'Who  is  your  counsel,  prisoner  ?"  said 
he  district  attorney. 

'  Me  counsel  ?"  with  a  vacant  stare. 
'  Yes :   what  lawyer  have  you  engaged 
o  defend  you  ?" 

"  Is  it  a  lawyer  ye're  axing  after?    I'll 
eave  it  all  to  his  honor,  there.     It's  only 
thief  that  needs  a  lawyer,  and  do  ye 
ake  me  for  a  thief?" 


BEYOND  THE  BREAKERS. 


"This  is  a  very  grave  charge,"  said 
the  prosecutor,  addressing  the  court : 
"the  prisoner  ought  surely  to  have 
counsel." 

"Have  you  no  money  with  which  to 
pay  a  lawyer,  prisoner  ?"  said  the  judge 
to  Terence. 

"They  took  me  bag  with  more'n  two 
hundred  dollars,  but  I've  four  hundred 
in  the  bank  yet." 

"  Then  you  had  better  take  a  part  of 
that  four  hundred  and  get  a  lawyer  to 
attend  to  your  case  ?" 

"Does  your  honor  think  I'm  a  thief, 
too  ?." 

"  Never  rnind  what  I  think.  Take 
my  advice  :  it's  kindly  meant  The 
court  gives  you  three  days  for  prepara 
tion.  Call  the  next  case." 


CHAPTER  III. 
THE  TRIAL. 

"  I  was  interrupted  in  the  heyday  of  this  soliloquy 
with  a  voice  which  I  took  to  be  that  of  a  child,  which 
complained  '  it  could  not  get  out.'  I  looked  up  and 
down  the  passage,  and  seeing  neither  man  nor  woman 
nor  child,  I  went  out  without  further  attention.  In 
my  return  back  through  the  passage,  I  heard  the  same 
words  repeated  twice  over ;  and,  looking  up,  I  saw  it 
was  a  starling,  hung  in  a  little  cage.  '  I  can't  get  out, 
I  can't  get  out !'  said  the  starling." — STERNE'S  Senti 
mental  Journey. 

TERENCE  fell  into  good  hands.  Carrol 
Bagster  was  an  upright  man  and  an 
earnest,  eloquent  advocate.  He  ran  his 
eye  rapidly  over  the  notes  of  the  case. 
"Terence,  my  good  fellow,"  said  he, 
"  this  is  a  bad  scrape.  Three  days  only, 
and  the  court  will  probably  adjourn  in 
two  days  more.  Look  here  !  I  should 
have  to  charge  you  a  hundred  dollars  : 
it  will  take  every  hour  of  my  time  till 
the  trial  comes  on  ;  and  its  only  throw 
ing  good  money  after  bad.  Plead  guilty : 
then  the  sentence  will  be  light — maybe 
three  or  four  months  only.  m  It's  your 
best  chance." 

"  Does  everybody  think  I'm  a  thief?" 
"  I  didn't  say  I  thought  you  took  the 
money.  The  evidence  is  strong  against 
you,  but  I've  known  it  to  be  stronger 
against  an  innocent  man.  And  I've  seen 
more  than  one  such  convicted  in  my  day. 
I  advise  you  to  plead  guilty." 


"You  want  me  to  say  I'm  a  thief?" 
"  Well,  do  as  you  think  right.      I  only 
tell  you  how  I  believe  you  can  shorten 
the    term    of    your    service    if    it   goes 
against  you." 

"  And  Norah  is  to  be  a  thief's  wife  ! 
And  the  blessed  young  ones  are  to  be  a 
thief's  childher !  And  the  ould  man 
there  in  Connaught,  that  used  to  nurse 
me  on  his  knee,  and  was  just  beginnin' 
to  be  proud  of  his  son — 

Here  the  poor  young  fellow  fairly 
broke  down,  and  he  sobbed  till  his  sturdy 
frame  shook  like  a  child's.  The  lawyer 
looked  at  him  compassionately  and  with 
a  mingling  of  curiosity  till  the  gust  was 
over.  Then  he  said  : 

"  I  do  believe  you  never  touched  the 
money,  Terence." 

"  The  Lord  in  heaven  reward  you  for 
that  blessed  word  !  Then  ye  don't  want 
me  to  be  after  telling  the  lie  and  making 
a  thief  of  myself?" 

"No:  I'll  stand  by  you  and  do  my 
best  to  show  that  you  told  the  truth 
when  you  pleaded  not  guilty." 

"  It  was  a  lucky  day  for  me  when 
Lawyer  Hartman  wouldn't  look  at  me 
case'" 

"  Ah  !  you  applied  to  him  ?" 
"  Yes,  and  he   told   me  to  go  to  the 
divil,  and   so   I    came   straight   to   your 
honor." 

"  Much  obliged  to  you  for  the  com 
pliment." 

"  Sorro'  a  bit  !  It's  little  me  and 
Norah — that's  me  wife — can  ever  do  for 
.the  likes  of  you,  but  we'll  never  darken 
the  door  of  the  church  without  prayin' 
for  you  and  yours.  Maybe  it'll  help  a 
bit  up  yonder." 

Bagster  smiled.  "  Wait  till  you  see 
what  I  can  do  for  you.  But  now  to 
business." 

Terence,  questioned  by  the  lawyer  as 
to  whether  Cassidy  knew  he  had  the 
money  by  him,  related  what  happened 
the  evening  before  the  arrest.  He  re 
membered  to  whom  he  had  paid  the 
seventeen  dollars  and  a  half— the  only 
witness  to  the  heedless  exposure  of  the 
gold — but  the  man  had  gone  South  :  no 
clue  could  be  obtained  to  his  address, 
and  it  was  uncertain  whether  he  would 


BETOND  THE  BREAKERS. 


return.  The  peddler,  too,  who  had  paid 
the  fifteen  eagles  to  Terence  for  jewelrv. 
had  left  the  city,  and  all  trace  of  him 
was  lost.  So  of  the  lodger  who  }-.id 
given  the  jewelry  in  payment  of  his 
board-bill. 

Nor  were  the  efforts  to  obtain  some 
knowledge  of  Cassiday's  antecedents 
any  more  successful  in  their  results.  It 
was  on  the  ninth  of  May  that  he  slept 
at  Terence's  tavern.  He  had  recorded 
Port  Richmond  as  the  last  place  he 
came  from.  No  one  there  knew  any 
thing  of  Byron  Cassiday.  His  name  was 
not  on  the  register  of  any  adjacent 
tavern,  nor  on  that  of  the  police  station, 
which  Bagster  carefully  looked  over. 

He  began  to  be  discouraged.  He  was 
good  lawyer  enough  to  know  that  the 
only  reliable  defence  was  one  backed  by 
an  array  of  facts  rebutting  the  testimony 
adduced  by  the  prosecution,  or  at  least 
explaining  away  suspicious  circum 
stances.  Nearly  two  days  were  gone 
and  nothing  obtained.  «  If  I  had  but  a 
week,"  he  said  to  himself,  » it  would  go 
hard  but  Fd  get  on  the  rascal's  tracks  ; 
but  with  a  single  clay  only  left,  I  must 
trust  to  general  testimonials  of  good 
character,  a  touch  on  circumstantial  evi 
dence,  and  then  a  warm  appeal  to  the 
jury.  Weak  enough  —  but  what  can  I 
do  ?" 

He  spent  the  night  before  the  trial  in 
searching  out  from  the  Causes  Celebrex 
and  other  authorities  examples  in  which 
innocent  men  had  been  convicted  and 
suffered  imprisonment  or  death. 

On  the  trial  the  principal  witness,  Cas 
siday,  adhered,  point  for  point,  to  the 
evidence  he  had  given  before  the  mayor  ; 
nor  did  a  searching  cross-examination 
elicit  any  thing  contradictory  or  sus 
picious.  He  never  lost  his  self-posses 
sion.  Interrogated  as  to  whether  he 
could  swear  positively  to  the  identity  of 
the  prisoner,  he  replied  emphatically  in 
the  affirmative,  adding  that  he  had  a  view 
of  his  features  for  as  much,  he  thought, 
as  half  a  minute,  at  first  in  profile  — 
afterward,  as  he  turned  to  leave  the 
room,  his  full  face  ;  and  that  he  (wit 
ness)  was  absolutely  certain  he  was  not 
mistaken  in  the  man.  When  asked 
2 


where  he  got  the  hundred  and  seventy 
dollars  which  he  alleged  to  have  been 
stolen. from  him,  he  replied  that  he  had 
worked  for  two  years  and  three-quarters 
on  the  farm  of  a  rich  German  named 
Gottlieb  Bauerman,  living  in  the  western 
part  of  Berks  county,  with  whom  he  had 
stipulated  that  the  money  paid  to  him 
should  all  be  in  gold  ;  that  the  hundred 
and  seventy  dollars  were  the  savings  of 
these  two  years  and  three-quarters  ;  that 
he  had  left  Mr.  Bauerman's  on  the 
second  day  of  May  last,  and  had  come 
to  Philadelphia  to  deposit  the  money  in 
a  savings  bank.  The  man's  look  was 
not  in  his  favor,  but  his  testimony  was 
given  with  great  clearness  and  an  ap 
parent  desire  to  be  strictly  exact.  His 
demeanor  was  far  from  being  that  of  an 
illiterate  laborer :  the  Irish  accent  was 
readily  to  be  recognized,  but  his  lan 
guage,  with  slight  exceptions,  was  cor 
rect  and  to  the  point. 

The   policeman  gave  the  same  testi 
mony  which  had   been   contained  in  his 
report  to  the  mayor  touching  the  lock  of 
the   room  and    the  street  lamp  immedi 
ately    opposite.     The    chambermaid  of 
the   tavern,  Arrah   O'Neil,  an  unwilling 
witness,    whose   testimony   was    elicited 
only  by  direct  questions  on  the  part  of 
the  prosecution,  testified  that  she  found 
the  candlestick,  on  the  morning  after  the 
alleged  theft,  on  the  floor  of  the  passage 
outside  ;  that  she  did  not  remember  such 
a  thing  ever  to  have  happened  before  in 
the  year  and  a  half  she  had  been  in  the 
house  ;  that  the   lock  was  found  to   be 
out  of  order  when  she  took  the  police 
man   to  the    room  ;   that,  to   her  know 
ledge,  it  worked  well  two   days   before  ; 
that  she  had  sometimes  arranged  room 
No.  36  for  a  traveler,  after  night,  by  the 
light  afforded  by  the  street  lamp  alone  ; 
and,  finally,  that  she  had  heard  her  mas 
ter,  on   the   Sunday  morning  before  his 
arrest,  when  conversing  with  his  wife  at 
breakfast,  say  that  his  landlord  had  of 
fered  him  the  house  he  was  living  in  on 
very  favorable  terms,  provided  he  could 
pay  a  thousand   dollars   down  within  a 
week  :  that  he   told   his  wife  he  would 
jump  at  the  offer  if  he  had  orconld  bor 
row  a  couple  of  hundred  dollars  more, 


i8 


BETOND  THE  BREAKERS. 


but  where  to  find  that  he  didn't  know. 
This  testimony  produced  the  more  effect 
upon  the  jury  because  it  was  evjdently 
wrung  from  a  witness  who  was  particu 
larly  anxious  to  say  nothing  that  might 
prejudice  the  case  of  the  prisoner. 

For  the  defence  several  tradesmen  and 
others,  chiefly  Irishmen,  were  examined 
as  to  the  general  character  of  the  ac 
cused.  Nothing  could  be  more  lauda 
tory  than  the  statements  they  made,  but 
the  effect  of  these  was  weakened  by  the 
very  warmth  and  transparent  zeal  with 
which  they  volunteered  their  commenda 
tions.  Beyond  this  point  of  good  pre 
vious  character  nothing  was  proved  by 
the  defence. 

The  prosecuting  attorney  behaved 
tolerably  well.  He  pressed  his  points, 
indeed,  sharply,  but  not  more  so  than 
might  have  been  expected  from  pride  of 
profession  in  a  young  man  ambitious  of 
distinction,  speaking  in  a  large  court 
room  that  was  crowded  to  its  utmost  ca 
pacity.  How  little  men  usually  consider 
what  a  terrible  thing  it  is  to  set  the  sat 
isfaction  of  professional  success  against 
a  human  reputation  or  a  human  life  !  I 
think  that  an  attorney  prosecuting  in  the 
people's  name  fails  in  duty  if  he  conceals 
from  the  jury  whatever  may  have  come  to 
his  knowledge  in  extenuation  or  defence 
of  the  accused ;  since,  though  this  be  more 
especially  the  province  of  the  prisoner's 
counsel,  or  of  the  judge  in  delivering  his 
charge,  every  officer  engaged  in  judicial 
proceedings  ought  to  feel  conscience- 
bound  to  aid,  to  the  full  extent  of  his 
knowledge,  in  bringing  to  the  surface  all 
facts  bearing  on  the  case.  Is  this  a  fas 
tidious  refinement  in  morality  ?  So  is  a 
slack  world  wont  to  regard  many  other 
bounden  duties  in  social  life. 

In  the  present  case  the  prosecutor 
probably  considered  the  young  Irishman 
guilty.  He  reminded  the  jury  that 
the  identity  of  the  prisoner  had  been 
most  positively  sworn  to  by  the  witness 
Cassiday ;  that  no  attempt  had  been 
made  to  prove  whence  the  prisoner  had 
obtained  the  large  amount  of  gold  that 
was  found  on  his  person  on  the  morning 
after  the  larceny  ;  that  the  prisoner's  oc 
cupation,  that  of  retailing  ardent  spirits, 


was  not  one  calculated  to  encourage  or 
preserve  a  high  tone  of  morality,  espe 
cially  when  slrong  temptation  presented 
itself;  and  that  there  evidently  was  in 
the  prisoner's  mind  a  motive  such  as 
might  tempt,  and  had  often  tempted,  to 
crime  even  those  who  had  hitherto  borne 
a  fair  character  before  the  world  — 
namely,  a  craving  desire  to  become  the 
owner  of  the  house  he  lived  in.  Such  a 
desire,  he  remarked,  was  often  the  one 
absorbing  ambition  of  a  man's  life,  par 
ticularly  of  one  born  in  humble  rank  in 
a  country  where  the  possession  of  land, 
monopolized  by  the  rich,  was  an  almost 
hopeless  prize  to  persons  of  his  condi 
tion.  But  the  points  which,  to  judge  by 
the  countenances  of  the  jurors,  chiefly 
told  upon  them  were  contained  in  the 
closing  argument  of  the  prosecutor. 

"  Gentlemen,"  he  said,  "  in  cases  of 
secret  crime,  committed  under  the  veil 
ing  cloud  of  night,  small  incidents,  such 
as  are  usually  called  accidental,  often  ex 
pose  and  convict  the  most  wily  criminal. 
Of  this  truth  two  striking  proofs  present 
themselves  in  the  present  case.  The 
accusing  witness  lost  a  sum  of  money  : 
the  exact  amount  was  a  hundred  and 
seventy  dollars  :  the  exact  form  in  which 
the  witness  possessed  that  sum  was  in 
gold-pieces  of  ten  dollars  each.  Now 
precisely  that  amount,  in  precisely  that 
denomination  of  gold-pieces- — seventeen 
eagles — was  found  on  the  prisoner's  per 
son  a  few  hours  after  the  scene  by  the 
washstand.  Was  this  chance?  What 
a  strange  chance  !  Supposing  the  wit 
ness  a  perjurer,  how  could  he,  an  entire 
stranger  to  the  prisoner,  possibly  guess 
that  the  prisoner  had  precisely  that  num 
ber  of  precisely  that  denomination  of 
pieces  of  gold  in  his  pocket  ?  -What  an 
infinite  number  of  chances  against  such 
a  coincidence  !  Was  it  accidental  ?  Is 
it  not  rather  to  be  believed  that  it  was 
ordained  by  Providence  that  the  intatu- 
ated  man  should  retain  on  his  person 
this  mute  witness  of  his  guilt  ?  Nor 
is  the  finger  of  God,  which  reveals  so 
much  of  hidden  wickedness,  less  evident 
in  another  apparently  unimportant  acces 
sory  to  the  deed.  The  prisoner,  intend 
ing,  no  doubt,  to  cloak  his  retreat  from 


BEYOND  THE  BREAKERS. 


the  scene  of  his  iniquity  (in  case  some 
eye  should  spy  him),  picks  up  the  candle 
stick  and  carries  it  from  the  room  ;  but 
he  does  not  take  it  to  his  own  bed 
chamber,  lest  it  should  testify  against 
him.  Finding  everything  quiet  in  the 
hall  outside,  he  deposits  it  on  the  floor. 
A  trifle  light  as  air  in  itself,  if  you  will ; 
and  yet  even  such  a  trifle  has  ere  now 
brought  home  to  the  conscience  of  the 
blood-stained  criminal  the  truth  of  the 
adage,  that  <  Murder  will  out.'  The 
witness  O'Neil,  the  chambermaid,  re 
luctantly  confesses  that,  during  the 
eighteen  months  she  had  spent  in  the 
prisoner's  house,  such  a  thing  had  not 
happened.  Why  should  it  happen  ? 
What  imaginable  motive  could  any  one 
have  to  take  that  candlestick  from  the 
washstand  and  deposit  it  on  the  floor 
outside  ? — what  imaginable  motive  save 
the  whisperings  of  guilt  ?  God  moves 
in  a  mysterious  way  in  bringing  sinners 
to  punishment.  The  Great  and  the 
Small — the  revolution  that  unseats  a  ty 
rant,  and  the  veriest  act  of  insignificance 
which  enables  us  to  track  crime  through 
the  darkness  in  which  it  seeks  to  en 
shroud  itself — are  alike  of  His  ordaining 
whose  finger  appears  in  all." 

Bagster  had  uphill  work  :  no  witness 
to  prove  that  Cassiday  had  seen  the  gold 
in  Terence's  possession — no  evidence  as 
to  how  Terence  became  possessed  of  that 
gold.  Then  the  evident  importance  that 
the  prisoner  should  obtain,  just  at  that 
time,  the  lacking  two  hundred  dollars 
to  complete  the  purchase  of  his  house. 
All  this  was  against  his  client.  Again  : 
though  he  could  suggest,  and  did  in 
geniously  suggest,  explanations  which 
seemed  to  strip  the  evidence  adduced 
against  the  accused  of  its  force,  he 
could  not  prove  these  :  they  remained 
unsustained  suggestions  only,  offset  by 
direct  testimony  which  he  had  failed  to 
controvert. 

Taken  at  such  disadvantage,  how 
ever,  he  made  a  brilliant  defence,  the 
trial  lasting  two  entire  days.  He  brought 
forward,  one  after  another,  an  array  of 
cases  in  which,  under  what  seemed  incon 
trovertible  circumstantial  evidence,  men 
and  women,  afterward  proved  to  have 


been  guiltless  as  Abel  was,  had  suffered 
obloquy,  lingering  imprisonment,  torture, 
death.  He  painted,  in-  colors  so  vivid 
as  to  bring  tears  to  the  eyes  of  more 
than  one  juror,  the  terrible  sufferings, 
mental  as  well  as  bodily,  of  these  victims, 
guiltless  of  all  crime,  condemned  and 
punished  without  even  the  shadow  of 
offence.  He  reminded  the  jury  of  the 
fallibility  of  all  human  testimony,  quot 
ing  the  opinion  of  that  prince  of  mathe 
maticians,  La  Place,  that  "it  may  be 
said,  speaking  in  strictness,  that  almost 
all  our  knowledge  consists  of  probabili 
ties  only."*  Then  he  brought  the  case 
home  to  themselves. 

"  There  is  not  a  man  among  you,"  he 
said,  "  though  he  be  law-abiding  to  the 
utmost  verge  of  religious  scruple,  who 
may  not  himself  be  placed  in  the  same 
position  now  occupied  by  my  client. 
There  is  not  a  father  or  a  mother  among 
the  hundreds  who  now  hear  me  that  may 
not  find  a  son  or  a  daughter  entangled 
to-morrow  in  the  like  inexorable  net ; 
appealing  to  Heaven  for  the  justice 
which  men  on  earth  refuse  to  grant  ; 
struggling  in  the  meshes  which  sus 
picion  and  abasement  have  wound  around 
them,  till  their  very  consciousness,  taken 
captive,  turns  traitor  and  half  persuades 
them  that  they  really  are  the  guilty 
wretches  which  the  world  unites  in  de 
claring  them  to  be  ;  fainting,  at  last,  in 
direst  need,  and  crying  out  like  Him, 
the  chiefest  of  immaculate  sufferers, 
<  My  God  !  my  God  !  why  hast  thou 
forsaken  me  ?'  Have  you  ever  heard," 
he  pursued,  his  voice  swelling  with  emo 
tion,  till  there  fell  on  the  vast  audience 
a  stillness  that  awed  himself — "  have 
you  ever  read  the  terrible  story  of  the 
Inevitable  Fate — how  the  poor  victim 
of  some  tyrant's  jealousy  was  overtaken 
by  a  death  the  details  of  which  hu 
manity  shudders  to  recall  ? 

«  Thus,  in  brief,  it  befell.  He  found 
himself  immured  in  a  dungeon,  some 
twelve  feet  square  and  as  many  in 
height — walls,  floor,  ceiling  all  of  one  ma 
terial,  hard  as  lava,  and  so  crystal- 
smooth  to  the  touch  that  it  seemed"  as 
if  a  fly  could  scarce  maintain  itself  on 

*LA  PLACE  :  Tkeorie  des  Probability,  Introd.,  p.  i. 


20 


BETOND  THE  BREAKERS. 


its  polished  surface.  On  the  floor  a 
straw  mattrass  ;  no  other  furniture. 
When  the  new-made  prisoner,  snatched 
from  a  life  of  light  and  happiness  with 
out,  awoke  from  a  trance  of  thought  to 
his  condition,  it  seemed  to  him  but  a 
murky  vision  of  the  night.  He  was  not 
in  darkness,  however:  that  was  a  grain 
of  comfort.  On  two  sides  of  his  dun 
geon  there  were  small  windows  near  the 
roof,  two  on  each  side,  giving  a  dim, 
reddish  light,  reflected  from  a  lamp  as  it 
seemed  to  him,  for  it  did  not  resemble 
the  light  of  day. 

"  But  where  was  the  door  by  which 
he  had  been  carried  in,  gagged  and 
muffled  ?  He  felt  all  over  the  seamless 
walls  of  his  cell — carefully  at  first,  ner 
vously  at  last — but  neither  sight  nor 
touch  could  detect  even  the  slenderest 
fissure  indicating  a  possible  means  of 
entrance  or  exit.  He  listened.  Not 
a  sound  !  Hour  passed  after  hour,  and 
ever  the  same  unbroken  stillness.  He 
had  cast  himself  on  his  pallet  and  closed 
his  eyes  to  shut  it  all  out.  But  his 
thoughts  choked  him,  and  at  last,  as  if 
motion  might  shake  them  off,  he  sprang 
to  his  feet.  Just  before  him,  some  three 
feet  from  the  ground,  was  suspended,  by 
a  chain  from  the  ceiling,  a  metal  tray,  on 
which  stood  food  and  water.  He  turned 
from  it  in  utter  disgust,  and  paced  his 
cell,  impatient  in  his  desolation.  His 
steps  awoke  not  the  slightest  footfall  : 
they  had  placed  on  his  feet  soft,  flannel- 
soled  slippers,  of  which  the  tread  gave 
back  no  sound  ;  but  he  scarcely  noticed 
this  at  the  time.  Again  he  threw  him 
self  on  his  couch,  seeking  sleep  in  vain. 
Whether  half  an  hour  or  an  hour  passed 
he  knew  not,  but  when  he  looked  up  the 
tray  and  its  contents  had  disappeared, 
though  not  the  slightest  noise — not  the 
creak  of  a  wheel,  not  the  clink  of  a 
chain— had  reached  his  ears.  After  a 
time  the  light  from  the  windows  waned, 
went  out,  and  he  supposed  it  night.  Tu 
multuous  fever-dreams,  that  could  not  be 
called  slumber,  wore  out  the  hours  of 
darkness.  The  lurid  light  gradually  re 
appeared.  With  it,  at  last,  came  the 
cravings  of  hunger.  He  had  refused 
food— would  they  leave  him  to  starve  ? 


When  hour  passed  after  hour  the  terror 
grew  stronger.  But  as  he  turned  on  his 
pallet,  there  again,  before  him,  stood  the 
tray  and  its  contents,  unannounced  by 
breath  of  sound.  Trembling  lest  it 
should  rise  again  before  his  eyes,  he 
rushed  toward  it  like  some  famished 
animal. 

"  Two  days,  as.  the  captive  reckoned 
them,  passed  by — the  second  like  the 
first :  then  the  third  night.  As  light 
dawned,  he  gazed  eagerly  toward  it.  It 
was  his  one  visitor — the  single  incident 
that  broke  the  dreary  monotony  of  his 
days.  "  But  what  was  this  ?  The  light 
shone  through  three  windows  only  :  some 
shutter  or  curtain  must  have  darkened 
the  fourth.  He  thought  but  little  of  the 
matter,  and  only  hoped  that  such  an  ac 
cident  would  not  happen  often,  for  he 
needed  all  the  light  he  had. 

"  Another  day,  and  still  the  fourth 
window  seemed  veiled.  Another  night. 
How  !  Were  his  eyes  cheating  him  ? 
Two  windows  only  !  He  sprang  up  as 
if  some  one  had  stricken  him  a  blow. 
Could  it  be  ?  He  grasped  his  mattrass, 
rolled  it  up  as  tightly  as  he  could,  set  it 
against  the  wall  just  under  one  of  the 
veiled  windows,  stood  upon  it  on  tiptoe. 
His  hands  nearly  reached  the  lower  line 
of  the  windows.  His  eyes  peered  eagerly 
through  the  dim  light.  It  was  no  shutter, 
no  curtain  that  obscured  it.  The  win 
dow  itself  had  disappeared,  leaving  not 
a  trace  behind  ! 

"  Words  are  weak  to  picture  the  pris 
oner's  dismay.  One  sense  had  already 
lost  its  earthly  correspondence.  His  was 
an  existence  without  sound — as  utterly 
still  as  if  there  were  neither  life  nor 
motion  in  the  world,  or  as  if  the  man, 
breathing  still,  had  been  a  tenant  of  the 
tomb.  He  had  stamped  for  very  rage, 
but  his  footsteps  fell  on  that  ice-smooth 
floor  as  mute  as  snow-flakes  on  the  sea. 
Was  another  sense  to  be  reduced  to 
impotence  ? 

"  He  gazed  around  him,  a  look  of  en 
treaty  on  the  upturned  face,  almost  as  if 
he  were  imploring  the  lost  windows  to 
reappear.  In  the  diminished  light  his 
dungeon  seemed  to  be  contracting  in  its 
dimensions,  or  was  it  his  senses,  thus 


BEYOND  THE  BREAKERS. 


21 


cruelly  abused,  that  were  failing  in  their 
office  ? 

"  Another  morning  !  Ah  !  two  win 
dows  still  :  he  had  dreamed  there  was 
but  one,  and  awoke  with  a  deep  sigh  of 
relief.  Yet  the  illusion  remained — nay, 
gained  upon  him — that  his  dungeon  was 
diminishing  in  size.  If  his  senses  began 
to  play  him  false,  would  his  reason  go 
next  ? 

"  The  sixth   morning   came.     Was  it 


his    dream 


again 


He    touched    his 


limbs,  he  felt  his  pallet.  He  was  awake. 
It  was  reality.  The  light  glimmered 
from  one  window  only  !  He  struggled 
against  belief,  closing  his  eyes  and  press 
ing  his  hands  tightly  over  them,  as  if 
thus  he  could  shut  out  the  terrible  con 
viction.  Then,  ere  his  eyes  unclosed, 
he  turned  resolutely  from  the  light. 
God  in  heaven  !  His  dungeon  was 
closing  upon  him  !  His  pallet  was  close 
on  one  wall,  and  yet  there  before  him — 
not  seven  or  eight  feet  distant,  but 
almost  within  his  reach — there  stood 
(or  seemed,  at  least,  to  stand)  that  ada 
mantine  surface  !  Was  it  so  close  ? 
He  must  touch  it.  For  a  time  his  limbs, 
as  if  smitten  with  palsy,  refused  their 
office.  But  he  forced  them  to  that  step 
— a  single  step  :  he  was  in  contact  with 
the  dungeon-wall ! 

"  The  touch  flashed  conviction  over 
him.  It  was  all  before  him  now.  It 
burned  itself  into  his  brain.  Light  go 
ing,  Hope  gone  !  All  human  effort  as 
vain  as  against  Omnipotence  itself! 
Window  after  window,  inch  by  inch  ! 
He  felt — ah  how  vividly  ! — what  was 
coming.  In  utter  silence,  in  brooding 
darkness,  slowly,  slowly  advancing,  a 
creeping  Fate  !  Was  ever  death  of 
horror  conceived  like  that !" 

The  orator  paused  amid  a  hush  that 
almost  typified  the  scene  his  fancy  had 
summoned  into  existence.  The  jury  sat 
entranced,  as  by  magnetic  glamour,  their 
eyes  riveted  on  the  speaker.  In  lower, 
more  level  tones  he  proceeded  :  "  I  pur 
sue  the  terrible  story  no  farther.  But 
has  it  no  counterpart  here,  in  this  nine 
teenth  century,  amid  our  civilization  ? 
We  have,  indeed,  no  dungeons  of  ada 
mant,  with  windows  that  vanish  in  suc 


cession — no  prison-cells  of  which  the 
walls,  impelled  by  infernal  mechanism, 
close  and  crush  out  the  victim's  life. 
And  yet  the  parallel  may  hold.  Look 
at  that  man,  now  awaiting,  as  it  were, 
life  or  death  from  your  lips.  A  felon, 
if  all  be  truth  that  has  been  testified 
before  you — an  innocent  man,  if  one 
villain  has  perjured  himself.  Is  it  theft 
alone  to  which  there  may  be  tempting 
motive  ?  You  know  the  law.  If  your 
verdict  convicts  my  client,  seventeen 
eagles  will  be  paid  over  to  the  accusing 
witness  as  his  property.  What  proof 
have  you — certainly  none  in  the  man's 
sinister  countenance  and  flushed  cheek 
and  cowardly  eye — that  he  is  not  a  pen 
niless  vagabond  ?  Is  perjury  an  un 
heard-of  crime  ?  Did  no  villain,  steeped 
in  poverty  that  was  due  to  an  abandoned 
life,  ever  swear  a  false  oath  to  obtain  a 
hundred  and  seventy  dollars — ay,  or  a 
tenth  part  of  that  sum  ?  Think  well 
of  it,  I  beseech  you,  jurors  !  If  that 
man,  as  thousands  have  done  before 
him,  sold  his  soul  for  gold,  my  client 
is  innocent.  If  you  consign  an  inno 
cent  man  for  months — for  years,  who 
knows  ? — to  the  solitude  of  a  Moyamen- 
sing  cell,  though  one  small  window  will 
admit,  day  after  day,  the  light  of  Heaven, 
yet  hopes  dearer  than  Heaven's  light 
will  go  out  there,  one  by  one — the  hope 
of  a  good  name,  of  a  happy  and  con 
tented  lot — the  hope  that  his  wife  may 
rejoice  in  his  fair  fame,  that  his  children 
may  honor  his  memory.  The  walls  of 
his  solitary  cell  will  remain  stationary  : 
he  need  not  fear  that  they  will  close 
upon  him  :  the  grated,  iron-bound  door 
will  continue  visible,  and  will  open  daily 
to  the  under-keeper — now  and  then  to 
the  chaplain.  But  can  the  words  of 
jailer  or  holy  man  undo  what  you  will 
have  done?  Can  they  persuade  him  that 
when,  at  the  close  of  his  term,  he  shall 
emerge  to  the  world,  it  will  be  the  same 
man  who  in  the  time  gone  by  went  about 
his  avocations  careless  and  light-hearted, 
with  many  to  love  and  to  trust  him — with 
none  to  make  him  afraid  ?  The  man  of 
God  may  declare  to  him  that  if  his  con 
science  be  void  of  offence  a  day  will 
come  when  the  Great  Judge  of  the  quick 


22 


BETOXD  THE  BREAKERS. 


and  the  dead  will  reverse  the  verdict  of 
a  fallible  earthly  tribunal.  But  what  can 
he  assure  to  him  upon  earth  meanwhile  ? 
Here,  at  this  very  moment,  are  hundreds 
who  have  seen  and  noted  the  accused, 
and  who  will  recognize  him  wherever,  in 
after  life,  they  meet  him  or  hear  his 
name.  To-morrow  the  press  with  its 
thousand  tongues,  the  magnet-wire  with 
its  lightning  speed,  will  bruit  that  name 
over  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  land. 
Will  the  prisoner  change  his  name  when 
he  issues  from  his  prison-house  ?  I 
should  not  advise  him  to  do  that.  He 
must  live  a  once-convicted  felon  ;  he 
need  not  live  under  a  perpetual  lie — a  lie 
that  his  associates  may,  any  day,  detect. 
But  if  he  conceal  not  the  Cain-brand 
that  is  upon  him,  whither  shall  he  flee 
where  it  may  not,  some  day,  show  forth  ? 
Among  strangers  he  may  win  back  again 
a  fair  name,  he  may  build  up.  once  more, 
a  thriving  business.  But  shall  not  a  bird 
of  the  air  carry  the  matter  ?  Go  where 
he  will,  there  stand  up  around  him,  al 
beit  unseen  by  stranger  eyes,  the  ada 
mantine  walls  of  public  opinion,  a  per 
petual  menace.  He  sees  them  :  he  knows 
that,  under  the  impulse  of  an  invisible, 
intangible  mechanism,  which  a  breath 
may  set  in  motion,  these  mysterious 
walls  m,ay  close  around  him,  crushing  to 
fragments  honest  reputation,  bright  busi 
ness  prospects,  respect  of  neighbors, 
trust  of  friends,  honored  rank  in  the 
community — everything  that  makes  life 
worth  having.  Better  the  tyrant's  dun 
geon  of  tangible  adamant !  A  single 
agony,  and  its  victim  was  at  rest  for 
ever  !" 

Again  the  speaker  paused.  His  eyes 
were  moist  and  his  voice  was  tremulous 
as  he  resumed  :  "  Terrible  must  the  pen 
alty  be  regarded,  even  when  the  guilt  it 
requites  is  flagrant  as  the  sun  at  noon 
day  !  But  of  this  I  make  no  complaint. 
I  bow  to  the  majesty  of  the  law.  I  re 
member  it  is  written  :  'The  wicked  flee 
when  no  man  pursueth.'  So  be  it !  I 
but  ask  that  you  will  not  take  wickedness 
for  granted.  I  but  entreat  you  not  to 
mete  out  to  the  innocent — no.  nor  to  him 
who,  for  aught  that  appears  against  him, 
may  be  innocent — the  doom — worse  than 


Indian  Pariah's  ! — the  lifelong  doom  of 
outlawry  which  (that  society  may  obtain 
protection)  a  stern  code  has  provided  for 
the  guilty." 

Very  effective,  for  the  moment,  was 
the  speech  of  which  these  extracts  give 
but  an  imperfect  idea.  Had  the  jury  re 
tired  as  soon  as  Bagster  concluded,  the 
verdict  would  probably  have  been  of  ac 
quittal.  But  there  was  interposed  the 
judge's  charge  ;  and  its  calm,  dispassion 
ate  tones  contrasted  strangely  with  the 
impetuous  appeal  of  the  advocate. 

"  You  have  been  greatly  moved,"  he 
said  to  the  jury,  "  and  I  confess  to  hav 
ing  shared  the  emotion.  Eloquence  is 
a  noble  gift,  yet  it  behooves  us  to  be  on 
our  guard  lest  it  encroach  on  the  prov 
ince  of  reason,  and  obscure  sound  judg 
ment.  In  a  case  like  that  before  us,  one 
should  look  rather  to  the  plain,  matter- 
of-fact  details  than  to  glittering  generali 
ties  which  apply,  in  a  measure,  to  all 
human  decisions.  Undoubtedly  inno 
cent  persons,  in  all  ages,  have  been  con 
victed  ;  but  this  must  sometimes  occur, 
so  long  as  judges  are  men  and  jurors  are 
fallible  creatures.  From  the  very  dis 
position  of  lawlessness  to  cloak  itself,  it 
often  happens  that  for  the  worst  crimes 
we  can  have  circumstantial  evidence 
only.  Again,  certain  offences  are  of 
such  a  nature  that  one  witness  only  can 
be  obtained  to  give  direct  evidence. 
Such  an  offence  is  that  with  which  the 
prisoner  stands  charged.  The  testimony, 
positively  sworn  to  by  the  witness  Cas- 
siday,  is,  that  the  prisoner  entered  his 
bed-chamber  in  the  dead  of  night  and 
took  thence  a  bag  of  money.  Unless 
some  one  had  seen  the  accused  enter 
the  room  or  leave  it — and  against  the 
happening  of  such  an  incident  there  are 
extreme  improbabilities — what  direct  tes 
timony  except  that  of  the  sufferer  was 
possible  ?  But  the  law  never  demands 
impossibilities.  It  is  my  duty  to  tell 
you  that  it  is  not  sufficient  reason  for 
acquitting  the  prisoner  that  one  person 
only  was  present  when  the  alleged  theft 
was  committed.  If  you  see  reason  to 
believe  that  the  witness  has  sworn  to  a 
falsehood,  of  course  your  verdict  should 
free  the  prisoner.  But  you  ought  not 


BEYOND  THE  BREAKERS. 


hastily  to  conclude  that  he  is  a  perjurer 
because  he  has  a  pecuniary  interest  in 
bringing  about  conviction.  In  every 
case  where  a  man  has  property  stolen 
from  him,  and  that  property  is  found  on 
the  thief,  the  same  pecuniary  interest 
exists.  You  are  the  judges  how  far  the 
man's  countenance  and  demeanor  are 
against  him  ;  but  it  is  proper  I  should 
remind  you  that  the  defence  was  unable, 
on  cross-examination,  to  break  down  his 
evidence,  or  at  all  to  weaken  the  same 
by  drawing  forth  a  single  contradictory 
admission." 

Then  the  judge  called  the  jury's  atten 
tion  to  the  various  corroboratory  circum 
stances  going  to  sustain  the  testimony 
of  the  main  witness — the  unexplained 
incident  of  the  chamber-door  lock,  evi 
dently  tampered  with  by  some  one 
shortly  before  the  alleged  theft ;  that  of 
the  candlestick  found  in  an  unusual 
place  ;  the  coincidence  between  the 
seventeen  eagles  found  on  the  person  of 
the  prisoner  and  the  sum  said  to  have 
been  stolen  by  him.  This  last,  however, 
he  said,  was  not  to  be  taken  as  evidence 
of  the  same  grade  as  that  obtained  when 
a  specific  piece  of  stolen  property  is 
identified.  One  eagle  precisely  resem 
bles  another :  there  was  no  allegation 
that  any  of  the  stolen  eagles  were  marked, 
nor  had  any  testimony  been  adduced  by 
the  prosecution,  beyond  the  assertion  of 
the  man  himself,  that  the  witness  Cassi- 
day  really  possessed  the  money  which 
he  swore  to  having  lost.  On  the  other 
hand,  there  had  been  failure,  on  the  part 
of  the  defence,  to  show  from  whom  the 
prisoner  obtained  the  large  amount  of 
gold  which  he  had  about  him  the  morn 
ing  after  the  alleged  larceny.  The  jury 
ought  to  give  full  weight  to  the  strong 
testimonials  of  good  character  borne  in 
favor  of  the  prisoner.  No  such  tes 
timony  had  been  adduced  by  the  prose 
cution  to  sustain  the  character  of  the 
accusing  witness,  but  neither  had  the 
defence  introduced  any  witnesses  to  im 
peach  his  character. 

Judge  Thomas  concluded  a  charge 
which  was  regarded  as  sustaining  the 
high  character  he  bore  for  judicial  im 
partiality,  as  follows  : 


"  Do  not  suffer  your  feelings  to  be 
carried  away  by  that  graphic  recital  of 
the  fate,  real  or  imagined,  of  some 
tyrant's  victim.  The  parallel  between 
the  self-closing  dungeon  and  a  Moya- 
mensing  cell  is  more  ingenious  than  ex 
act.  Nor  is  the  question  submitted  to 
you  whether  the  punishment  prescribed 
by  our  laws  for  larceny  is  or  is  not  un 
duly  severe.  You  are  not  members  of 
the  Legislature,  with  power  to  decide 
whether  a  certain  penal  law  shall  or 
shall  not  be  modified.  You  are  jurors 
called  together  to  determine  a  simple 
matter  of  fact.  Seek  to  divest  your 
selves  of  all  considerations  not  strictly 
bearing  on  that  one  point.  .If  the  entire 
evidence,  carefully  sifted,  leave  on  your 
minds  a  reasonable  doubt  whether  the 
offence  was  committed,  give  the  prisoner 
the  benefit  of  that  doubt.  If,  on  the 
contrary,  it  produces  conviction  of  his 
guilt,  do  not  scruple  to  express  this  by 
your  verdict,  leaving  the  culprit  to  be 
dealt  with  according  to  the  laws  of  that 
country  which  he  has  voluntarily  selected 
as  his  own." 

The  jury  were  all  night  in  session. 
Half  an  hour  after  the  opening  of  the 
court,  next  morning,  they  brought  in 
their  verdict — GUILTY  ! 


CHAPTER   IV. 
ASTRAY. 

FOLLOW  we,  for  a  season,  the  fortunes 
of  Byron  Cassiday — not  an  interesting 
character,  anything  but  a  good  or  a 
moral  one  ;  yet  of  such  among  others — 
some  much  better,  a  few  worse— is  this 
checkered  world  of  ours  made  up.  If 
we  had  had  the  making  of  it,  we  should 
have  excluded  —  should  we  not? — the 
Byron  Cassidays  from  our  scheme,  for 
is  not  that  an  element  which  could  well 
be  spared  ?  To  us,  in  our  earthly  wis 
dom,  it  seems  so.  I  am  not  willing  to 
go  farther  in  my  admission,  being,  in 
deed,  indisposed  to  spend  much  time 
on  that  question  of  questions,  that  has 
puzzled  men  ever  since  they  began  to 
i  think — the  origin  of  evil.  We  have  not 
i  light  enough  by  which  to  answer  it  here. 


BETOND  THE  BREAKERS. 


We  look  at  it  through  a  glass,  darkly.  ! 
Had  we  not  better  postpone  the  inquiry  ? 
— it  need  not  be  for  long.  By  and  by 
the  solution  may  be  within  our  reach. 
In  a  short  time  a  Friend — how  strange 
that,  because  he  translates  us  to  a  better 
world,  he  should  have  been  thought  an 
Enemy  ! — will  usher  us  into  a  phase  of 
existence  where  we  shall  look  over  a 
wider  periscope — where  we  shall  enjoy 
keener  perceptions  and  clearer  skies. 

Meanwhile,  through  the  glass,  dark  as 
it  is,  we  can  see  some  of  the  uses  of 
evil.  They  are  worth  noting,  for  they 
supply  lessons  tending  to  increase  the 
tranquillity  and  the  contentment  of  our 
lives. 

Then,  not  without  profit  perhaps,  we 
may  track,  for  a  brief  space,  a  man 
deceitful  in  heart  through  the  crooked 
paths  where,  in  his  ignorance,  he  sought 
that  which  in  crooked  paths  is  never 
found. 

Owner,  for  the  only  time  in  several 
years,  of  a  hundred  and  seventy  dollars, 
Cassiday's  first  care  was  to  replenish  his 
wardrobe.  He  appeared,  and  to  some 
extent  he  felt,  a  different  man  in  the  neat, 
well-fitting  dress  which  he  had  selected. 
His  air  was  less  downcast,  his  bearing 
more- assured  ;  yet  the  restless,  challeng 
ing  glance  of  the  gray  eyes,  and  the 
hard,  uneasy,  half-defiant  lines  of  the 
mouth,  betrayed,  to  an  eye  accustomed 
to  look  beneath  the  surface,  that  there 
might  be  more  of  swagger  than  of  true 
courage  there.  P'or  the  rest,  a  comely 
person  of  medium  size,  with  limbs  mus 
cular  and  well  knit ;  the  only  defect  of 
the  figure  being  a  slight  outward  curve 
of  the  legs,  caused,  probably,  by  too 
much  riding  at  an  early  age. 

In  his  childhood  and  youth  this  man, 
to  use  a  common  phrase,  had  not  had  a 
fair  chance.  The  illegitimate  son  of  an 
Irish  peasant-girl,  Bridget  Cassiday, 
whose  good  looks  and  gay  spirits  had 
attracted  the  attentions  of  Squire  De- 
lorny,  the  keenest  fox-hunter  and  most 
eager  horse-racer  in  the  county,  he  had 
been  suffered,  by  his  heedless,  reckless 
mother,  to  grow  up  in  unchecked  will 
fulness.  His  father  thought  he  did  his 


duty  by  the  child  in  giving  his  mother  a 
few  pounds  yearly  to  feed  and  clothe 
him,  in  sending  him  for  two  or  three 
years  to  a-  country  school,  where  the  lad 
showed  quickness  and  desire  to  learn  ; 
and  finally,  when  he  was  old  enough  to 
sit  and  rule  a  horse,  in  promoting  him 
to  be  his  principal  jockey.  His  youthful 
years  thereafter  were  chiefly  spent  in 
the  racing-stable,  his  bed  beside  the 
horses,  and  his  associates  the  stable- 
boys  and  other  hangers-on  of  the  place. 
An  idle,  exciting,  dissolute  life,  one  of 
its  attractions  being  the  handsome  gra 
tuities  which  his  father  handed  him,  from 
time  to  time,  when  he  chanced  to  bring 
in  the  horse  he  rode  a  winner. 

At  the  age  of  seventeen,  finding  that 
the  youth  had  outgrown  the  proper 
jockey-weight,  the  Squire  apprenticed 
him  to  a  neighboring  miller.  There  he 
might  have  done  well  enough,  had  not 
his  antecedents  engendered  disgust  for 
any  steady  occupation.  He  bore  it,  in 
a  grumbling  way,  for  two  years,  then  ran 
off  to  America. 

Here,  for  several  years,  he  found  em 
ployment  in  a  livery  stable  in  Philadel 
phia,  his  habits,  the  while,  degenerating. 
During  a  drunken  frolic  one  night  he 
got  into  a  serious  difficulty  with  the  po 
lice,  from  which  he  was  extricated  by  a 
young  man,  a  recent  acquaintance,  form 
erly  articled  clerk  to  a  conveyancer,  but 
who  had  lately  set  up  for  himself  as  at- 
torney-at-law.  Better  he  had  been  left 
in  the  hands  of  the  authorities,  for  his 
new  acquaintance  led  him  from  vice  to 
crime.  The  legal  profession  in  our 
country  is  seldom  disgraced,  even  among 
its  humblest  members,  by  lawless  men. 
But  Amos  Cranstoun,  smooth  and  plaus 
ible  in  exterior,  was  one  of  these.  His 
wages  as  clerk  had  been  low  :  he  wanted 
a  start  in  life  without  working  too  hard 
and  waiting  too  long  for  it.  Yet  he  greatly 
disliked  to  incur  the  penalties  of  the  law  : 
he  had  no  intention  of  employing  hazard 
ous  tools  except  for  a  season,  just  to  get 
over  the  first  roughness  of  poverty. 
Nay,  his  natural  caution  might  have 
deterred  him,  in  default  of  better  motive, 
from  overstepping  legal  bounds  at  all, 
had  not  a  tempting  lawsuit,  involving  a 


BEYOND  THE  BREAKERS. 


-5 


large  amount  of  property,  been  put  into 
his  hands  by  a  young  profligate,  just  as 
his  own  small  savings,  laid  up  during 
his  clerkship,  had  nearly  run  out,  while 
his  meagre  practice  scarcely  defrayed 
office-rent.  He  saw  that  his  client's 
case,  whether  just  or  not,  was  hopeless 
in  law  as  it  stood.  There  was  lacking 
a  witness  to  one  of  the  main  points,  and 
no  chance  whatever  that  such  could  be 
honestly  found.  Then  he  cast  his  eyes 
on  Cassiclay,  self-possessed,  audacious, 
unscrupulous.  Yet  it  needed  all  his 
sophistry  to  bring  over  the  stable-boy. 
He  had  never  transgressed  the  law 
except  by  some  venial  breaches  of  the 
peace. 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  help  out  any 
swindling,"  Cranstoun  said  to  him:  "my 
client  has  justice  on  his  side  ;  but  a 
main  witness  is  not  forthcoming — dead, 
no  doubt.  All  I  want  you  to  do  is  to 
swear  what  he  would  have  sworn  if 
living." 

"  But  if  I  know  nothing  about  it,  that 
would  be  swearing  false." 

"  For  a  good  purpose." 

"Maybe  !"  with  a  contemptuous  smile. 
Then,  his  face  darkening,  he  added : 
"  What  is  your  punishment  for  it  ?" 

"A  year  or  two  in  the  State  prison  ; 
but  do  you  think  I  would  propose  such 
a  thing  to  you  if  there  were  any  risk  ?" 

"  Humph  !" 

"  Don't  you  see,  man,  that  I  am  in 
the  same  boat  myself?" 

"  I  see  that  if  I  get  paid  for  such  a 
piece  of  work,  you'll  get  far  better  paid ; 
and  so  far  we  are  in  the  same  boat. 
But  I'm  like  to  be  caught,  and  you'll  be 
sure  to  come  off  free." 

"That's  a  mistake.  Suppose  it  were 
a  false  oath  :  if  I  procure  you  to  swear 
it  I  am  guilty  of  subornation  of  perjury, 
and  that  is  a  State  prison  offence.  Do 
you  think  I  would  chance  a  prison  cell 
if  I  thought  there  was  any  risk  worth 
talking  of?" 

"  Can  you  show  me  how  such  a  thing 
may  be  done  without  risk,  Mr.  Cran 
stoun  ?" 

"  Easily."  He  took  from  one  of  the 
pigeon-holes  of  his  desk  a  paper,  which 
he  read  over  to  Cassiday  slowly,  repeat 


ing  several  passages.  "That's  your 
lesson.  You  must  learn  it  so  that  no 
body  can  put  you  out.  When  you  know 
it  all,  I'll  cross-examine  you." 

"  Cross-examine  me  ?" 

"  Yes,"  taking  up  another  paper. 
"  Here  are  all  the  questions  the  opposite 
lawyers  are  the  most  likely  to  ask  you. 
If  you  can  stand  my  cross-examination, 
you  can  stand  theirs.  You'll  have  it  all 
as  pat  as  the  catechism  before  you  go 
into  court." 

Cassiday  paused,  and  the  other  re 
sumed  : 

"  Two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars, 
whether  we  win  or  lose.  How  long  will 
it  take  you  to  earn  that,  rubbing  down 
horses  in  a  livery  stable  ?" 

The  last  question  touched  Cassiday's 
weak  spot.  Not  even  daily  intercourse 
with  the  dissolute  retainers  of  his  father's 
racing  stable  had  so  demoralized  the 
young  man  as  the  large  sums  he  occa 
sionally  received  when  victor  in  a  race. 
These  came  so  easily,  giving  him  for 
weeks  or  months  at  a  time  the  means 
of  prodigal  indulgence.  It  was  as  fatal 
to  after  content  in  honest  labor  as  if  he 
had  won  prize  after  prize  in  a  lottery. 
No  prizes  at  the  mill  where  he  had  been 
apprenticed ;  no  prizes  in  a  Philadelphia 
livery  stable — nothing  but  dull,  toilsome, 
tedious  work  at  a  dollar  a  day.  He 
wanted  to  put  into  the  lottery  again,  and 
the  old  Serpent  that  cheated  Eve  gave 
him  a  chance — a  chance  to  win  two  hun 
dred  and  fifty  dollars  in  little  more  time 
than  it  had  taken  him  to  ride  a  winning 
horse. 

When  the  suit  came  on  he  was  per 
fect  in  his  lesson,  impassive  under  cross- 
examination,  won  his  prize,  and  squan 
dered  it,  ere  three  months  were  over,  in 
reckless  dissipation. 

About  the  time  when  Cassiday's  purse 
was  exhausted,  volunteers  were  called  for 
to  serve  in  the  war  against  Mexico. 
Fighting,  he  thought,  was  better  than 
working,  and  he  enlisted. 

Just  according  to  the  motives  that 
prompt  a  citizen  to  become  a  soldier  are 
the  results  on  his  character  of  two  or 
three  campaigns.  These  may  make  out 
of  an  unformed  stripling  a  self-pos- 


26 


BEYOND  THE  BREAKERS. 


sessed,  energetic  man  ;  or  they  may 
confirm  a  rogue  in  a  spirit  of  lawlessness 
and  harden  habits  of  license  and  excess. 

The  latter  was  the  result  in  Cassiday's 
case.  He  served  under  Shields ;  fought 
creditably  enough  ;  fell,  stunned  by  a 
sabre-cut  from  a  Mexican  dragoon,  on 
the  same  field  on  which  his  commander 
was  shot  through  the  body  by  an  esco- 
pette  ball ;  and  came  home  with  a  heavy 
bag  of  Mexican  dollars.  "  To  the  vic 
tors  belong  the  spoils"  was  his  favorite 
maxim  for  some  time  after  his  return. 

The  Mexican  dollars  soon  went  the 
usual  way  of  ill-gotten  gains.  Then 
came  several  years  of  poverty  and  sor 
did  expedients ;  so  bitter  in  the  recollec 
tion  that  Cassiday,  with  purse  orice  more 
filled  out  of  Satan's  lottery  and  with  an 
unwontedly  decent  coat  on  his  back,  began 
to  doubt  whether  work,  if  it  was  not  too 
hard,  might  not  be  preferable  to  his  re 
cent  struggles  against  starvation. 

Either  work  or  another  prize  out 
of  the  lottery  ;  and  that  brought  his 
thoughts  back  to  Cranstoun,  of  whom 
he  had  lost  sight  since  he  first  enlisted. 
After  several  days  spent  in  baffled  in 
quiries,  he  learned  that  he  had  settled, 
eight  or  nine  years  before,  in  Western 
Ohio,  having  become  a  resident  of  the 
village  of  Chiskauga,  situated  at  a  short 
distance  from  one  of  the  stations  on  the 
Riverdale  Railway. 

In  the  afternoon  of  the  second  day  he 
reached  the  station  ;  and,  leaving  his  bag 
gage  to  come  on  by  the  stage  in  the  morn 
ing,  set  out  to  walk  to  the  village — five 
miles  distant,  they  told  him  it  was. 

The  road,  chiefly  through  the  forest, 
was  bounded,  at  intervals  on  either  side, 
by  farms — some  with  comparatively  spa 
cious  and  comfortable  dwellings  and  out 
houses  ;  others  of  more  recent  date  and 
scantier  accommodations. 

Soon  after  leaving  the  station,  as  he 
was  ascending  a  hill,  a  horseman  over 
took  him,  and  suffered  the  animal  he 
rode — a  stout  hackney — to  drop  into  a 
walk. 

»  You  are  bound  for  Chiskauga  ?"  he 
asked. 

«  Yes,  for  the  first  time.  Is  it  a  large 
place  ?" 


"A  village  of  some  fifteen  hundred 
people." 

"  I  thought  any  settlement  out  here 
that  had  reached  a  thousand  inhabitants 
was  above  being  called  anything  but  a 
town." 

"  Ours  isn't.  It's  a  village — looks 
like  a  village,  and  has  village  ways. 
You'll  find  the  houses,  except  along  part 
of  the  main  street,  set  back  from  the 
sidewalks,  each  in  a  garden  —  small 
houses,  most  of  them.  We  have  scarcely 
any  rich  people,  but  very  few  who  are 
not  pretty  well-to-do.  It's  a  place  that 
likes  pic-nics  and  strawberry  parties  and 
blackberry  gatherings,  and  Fourth-of- 
July  celebrations,  and  Christmas  balls, 
and  theatre-going  about  New  Year's 
Day." 

"  Balls,  theatres  !  —  out  here  in  the 
woods  !" 

« Why  not  ?  We're  not  in  such  a 
hurry  to  get  rich  that  we  can't  enjoy  our 
selves  as  we  go  along.  When  the  girls 
have  washed  up  the  dishes  after  dinner, 
they  get  up  their  horses,  saddle  them 
and  make  up  riding  parties.  When  the 
young  men  get  tired  selling  dry  goods, 
they  start  out — two  afternoons  in  the 
week,  maybe — for  the  common  across 
Kinshon  Creek,  to  play  base  ball." 

"  And  what  becomes  of  the  shops  in 
the  mean  time  ?" 

"  Shops,  man  !  Oh,  you're  from  the 
old  country.  Why,  they're  merchants, 
and  they  sell  ribbons  and  coffee  out  of 
stores,  not  shops.  I  don't  advise  you 
to  call  these  young  gentlemen  shop 
keepers  if  you  intend  to  stay  here.  We 
have  no  shops,  except  maybe  tailors'  and 
barbers' — yes,  and  a  blacksmith's  or  a 
carpenter's  shop — that  will  pass." 

"I'll  be  careful;  but  do  the  stores 
take  care  of  themselves  till  the  game's 
ended  ?" 

« No,  there's  a  clerk  left,  and  he 
sends  a  boy  to  the  -play-ground  for  the 
owner,  if  he's  specially  wanted.  Next 
day  they  let  the  clerk  take  his  turn.  Then, 
on  Saturday  afternoons,  if  it's  fine,  they 
generally  shut  up  and  go  boating  on  the 
lake." 

«  Are  there  no  rich  men  in  the  place  ?" 

(c  Yes — Mr.  Sydenham  :  you'll  see  his 


BEYOND   THE  BREAKERS. 


27 


house  OP  the  hill,  about  a  mile  west  of 
town,  on  the  left  as  you  go  in  :  Rose- 
bank  he  calls  it.  You'll  know  it,  for  it's 
the  handsomest  house  in  the  county, 
with  stables  and  coach-house,  and  a 
born  good  enough  to  live  in.  He  owns 
seven  or  eight  thousand  acres  of  land 
round  here." 

"  Are  there  no  other  rich  people  ?" 

"  Well,  there's  Cranstoun,  the  lawyer: 
nobody  knows  exactly  whether  he's  rich 
or  not." 

"  Amos  Cranstoun  ?    Is  he  at  home  ?" 

"  Yes  :   you  know  him  ?" 

"  Very  little.  I've  seen  him  in  Phila 
delphia." 

"  Then  you've  seen  a  sharp  trader. 
There's  others  pretty  well  off,  too. 
Thomas  Hartland  lives  on  the  south 
edge  of  the  village :  he  goes  hunting 
bugs  all  the  time." 

«  Bugs  !  Is  the  place  infested  with 
them  ?" 

"We've  plenty  in  the  woods— beetles 
and  caterpillars,  butterflies,  and  all  kinds 
of  bugs.  And — bless  me  ! — there's  his 
niece :  I  ought  not  to  forget  such  a 
pretty  girl  as  Miss  Celia,  and  an  heiress 
at  that  !  By  the  way,  Cranstoun  may 
be  pretty  rich  one  of  these  days — if  he 
gets  her."' 

«  You  think  he's  after  her  ?" 

"  Or  after  her  fortune  :  they  say  so. 
But  I  did  hear  that  some  young  fellow — 
I've  forgotten  who  they  said  it  was — is 
courting  her  too." 

"  Is  Mr.  Sydenham  married  ?" 

«  A  widower— near  on  forty,  I  should 
think :  a  good  citizen,  that  has  done 
more  for  the  neighborhood  than  e'er  an 
other  man  in  the  country.  The  village 
has  doubled  in  size  since  he  settled 
here." 

"You  haven't  named  yourself,  stran 
ger,  on  your  list.  I  think  you  must  be 
pretty  well  off.  That's  a  capital  road 
ster." 

"  I'm  Nelson  Tyler,  owner  of  Tyler's 
Mill — that  road  just  before  us  to  the 
left  turns  off  to  it.  Yes,"  patting  the 
horse's  neck,  « the  gelding's  not  amiss." 
"  Shoulder  fine  and  high  ;  hips  well 
up ;  just  room  for  the  saddle  ;  thick 
through  the  heart;  good  round  barrel, 


clean  limbs  and  a  muzzle  that  could 
drink  out  of  a  pint  cup  ;  a  good  feeder 
and  a  good  goer,  I'll  warrant.  Can 
make  his  fifty  miles  a  day  and  never 
turn  a  hair." 

"  Seventy  of  them,  easy,  with  your 
weight.  I'm  rather  heavy  for  him." 

The  speaker  must  have  been,  in  his 
youth,  a  specimen  of  rough,  manly 
beauty  ;  of  which,  though  now  some 
what  stricken  in  years  and  a  little  in 
clined  to  corpulency,  he  still  retained 
traces.  His  countenance  was  open  and 
bold,  with  a  clear,  spirited  eye,  well- 
marked  eyebrows,  and  a  forehead  which, 
though  not  of  that  capacity  which  indi 
cates  great  reasoning  power,  was  well 
formed,  and  in  its  lower  portion  strongly 
marked  by  that  projection  over  the  eye 
brows  which  phrenologists  set  down  as 
indicative  of  shrewd,  practical  sense. 
His  round,  gladiator-looking  head,  with 
its  short  curling  hair,  now  grizzled  by 
years,  was  set  on  a  pair  of  Herculean 
shoulders.  His  muscular,  well-propor 
tioned  limbs  and  height  of  six  feet  set 
off  a  frame,  it  would  seem,  of  unusual 
power,  though  its  owner  lacked  but  a 
year  or  two  of  sixty.  He  had  a  rich, 
powerful  voice,  deep  and  sonorous.  He 
was  good-natured,  and  the  commenda 
tion  of  his  saddle-horse  pleased  him. 

«  You're  a  good  judge  of  a  horse :  I 
can  tell  that  by  your  eye,  Mr. " 

"  Cassiday — Byron  Cassiday  is  my 
name." 

"  Well,  Mr.  Cassiday,  if  you  conclude 
to  stay  here,  come  and  see  me  at  the 
mill.  I'm  not  rich  ;  I  work  hard  for  a 
living,  but  it's  a  pretty  good  living,  and 
something  to  spare  for  a  friend.  Our 
roads  part  here.  It's  less  than  four 
miles  to  the  village.  Good-evening." 

Cassiday  walked  on,  musing  :  "  After 
an  heiress  !  He'll  leave  no  stone  un 
turned,  if  some  of  them  are  pretty  deep 
in  the  mud.  He  goes  in  to  win.  I'll 
bet  on  him  if  the  stakes  are  only  large 
enough." 

Occupied  by  such  thoughts,  he  reached 
a  point  where  the  road  had  been  cut. 
with  a  gradual  descent,  on  one  side  of  a 
picturesque  ravine,  the  opposite  slope, 
on  the  left,  being  covered  with  a  wilder- 


-     28 


BEYOND  THE  BREAKERS. 


ness  of  blackberry  bushes,  among  which, 
had  he  come  a  month  or  two  sooner,  he 
might  have  seen  women  and  children 
busy  gathering  the  fruit 

«  Is  it  far  to  Chiskauga  ?"  he  said  to 
a  young  girl  whom  he  met,  her  willow 
basket  filled  with  tempting  cantaloupes. 
« It's  close  by.  You  can  see  the 
place,  and  ever  so  far  round  it,  from  that 
hill,"  pointing  to  a  small  eminence  on 
the  right,  a  blue-grass  pasture,  where 
sheep  were  feeding. 

"  Do  they  mind  people  walking  there  ?" 
"Walking  there  !"  said   the  girl,  her 
large  blue  eyes  opening  wide   with   as 
tonishment.       "Why   should  they   care 
about  that  ?"  laughing. 

Cassiday  leaped  the  post -and- rail  - 
fence,  and  ascended  to  the  summit. 
Even  his  senses,  impassive  usually  to 
influences  of  Nature  in  any  of  her  as 
pects,  were  arrested  by  the  beauty  of  the 
rural  scene  that  stretched  out  for  miles 
at  his  feet. 

The  rounded  knoll  on  which  he  stood 
formed  portion  of  a  semi-circular  range 
of  undulating  hills,  rising  sixty  or  seventy 
feet  above  the  plain  below,  and  sweeping 
round,  about  a  mile  from  the  village,  on 
its  western  side.  Where  these  were  too 
steep  for  ordinary  cultivation,  they  were 
laid  out  in  vineyards,  terraced.  Else 
where  they  furnished  building- spots 
(each  with  a  charming  prospect),  gar 
dens,  orchards,  pasture-fields.  On  the 
left,  where  the  range  of  hills  increased 
in  height,  and  some  half  a  mile  or  three- 
quarters  north  of  where  Cassiday  stood, 
he  noticed,  through  the  trees,  a  dwelling 
which  he  set  down  as  Mr.  Sydenham's 
— a  pretty  villa  built  of  some  dark- 
reddish  stone,  standing  part  of  the  way 
up  the  hillside.  It  fronted  east,  with 
garden  and  meadow  on  the  slope  in 
front  ;  and  beyond  there  were  vineyards, 
reaching  north  to  a  small  stream,  or 
creek  as  it  was  usually  called.  A  little 
way  up  that  stream  could  be  seen  a 
rustic  bridge,  crossing  to  what  seemed  a 
cemetery  ;  for  one  could  discern,  here 
and  there,  under  the  evergreens  with 
which  it  was  dotted,  small  white  monu 
ments,  shining  in  the  evening  sun.  Lower 
down,  a  light  mist  or  spray  seemed  to 


indicate  a  waterfall.  Beyond  the  creek, 
the  hill-range  swept  round  to  the  east, 
half  enclosing  the  village  common,  the 
resort  of  those  truant  lovers  of  base 
ball  to  whom  the  burly  owner  of  Tyler's 
mill  had  alluded. 

In  front,  directly  east  of  him,  was  the 
village,  literally  embowered  in  trees,  the 
rows  of  black  locusts  marking  the  street 
lines.  Several  large  buildings  stood  out 
above  the  foliage  —  a  produce  warehouse, 
a  granary,  a  mill  for  the  manufacture  of 
dried  corn  meal,  four  or  five  good-sized 
stores,  and  the  like.  There  were  also 
two  simple  churches,  and  several  dwell 
ings  bespeaking  the  easy  circumstances 
of  the  owners  ;  but  three-fourths  of  the 
houses  were  small  brick  or  frame  build 
ings,  scarcely  distinguishable  through  the 
mass  of  orchard  and  shade  trees  which 
covered  up  the  view. 

On  the  left  of  the  eminence  on  which 
Cassiday  stood  was  the  main  avenue 
leading  into  Chiskauga,  planted,  on  each 
side,  with  a  double  row  of  trees,  which 
sheltered  a  sidewalk  for  foot-passengers. 
On  the  right  of  the  village  stretched 
out,  four  or  five  miles  to  the  south,  a 
magnificent  champaign  country,  with  but 
slight  undulations,  and,  to  judge  by  the 
heavy  crops  that  loaded  it,  having  the 
richest  quality  of  soil.  The  view  in 
that  direction  was  bounded  by  a-  strip 
of  primaeval  forest.  From  the  centre 
of  the  village,  and  running  south  through 
this  plain,  there  was  a  wide,  shaded  ave 
nue  similar  to  that  above  described  ;  and, 
crossing  that  at  right  angles  and  at  regu 
lar  intervals,  other  avenues  ;  the  shade- 
trees  which  bordered  these  seeming, 
however,  to  be  of  a  few  years'  growth 
only. 

But  the  most  striking  feature  in  that 
charming  landscape  was  a  lake,  its  blue 
waters  just  then  rippling  under  a  light 
southern  breeze.  It  lay  immediately 
beyond  the  village,  to  which  it  had  given 
its  Indian  name.  Chiskauga  Water  it  had 
been  called  by  the  aborigines,  doubtless 
because  of  the  multitude  of  grasshoppers 
seen  on  its  banks.*  It  was  approached 
on  the  east  and  connected  with  the  vil- 


*  Chiskauga  means,  in  the  Oneida  tongue, 
hopper. 


BEYOND  THE  BREAKERS. 


29 


lage,  by  an  avenue,  usually  called  the 
Elm  Walk,  from  the  double  row  of  elm 
trees  which  bordered  it  on  either  side, 
and  which  had  been  planted  thirty  years 
before  by  Mr.  Sydenham's  father.  This 
picturesque  bit  of  water  was  some  three 
or  four  miles  in  length  and  a  mile  and  a 
half  or  two  miles  wide.  On  its  south 
and  west  shores,  its  banks,  of  fine  gravel 
and  sand,  were  low  and  sloping ;  but  the 
range  of  hills  which  swept  round  the 
village  common  struck  the  lake  on  its 
northern  bank,  rising  into  steep  cliffs, 
seventy  feet  in  height,  crowned  with 
cedars.  Thus,  as  Cassiday  looked  at  it 
from  his  commanding  stand-point,  he 
could  see  that  its  shores  were  low  and 
level  toward  the  village,  from  which  it 
was  distant  about  half  a  mile,  but  rocky 
and  precipitous  on  the  left  almost  to  its 
eastern  extremity. 

In  that  hard  profligate,  who  had  sent 
to  prison  among  felons  an  innocent  man 
whom  he  had  robbed,  there  must  have 
been,  underlying  the  selfish,  reckless, 
lawless  propensities,  some  dash  of  good 
— a  little  leaven,  though  the  lump,  the 
growth  of  lax  self-indulgence,  proved  too 
large  for  it.  It  did  not  amount  to  much 
in  practice  ;  yet  it  kept  him  there,  face 
to  face  with  that  peaceful  scene,  till  the 
shadow  of  the  hill  on  which  he  sat  had 
stolen  half-way  across  the  fields  that 
separated  him  from  the  village ;  till 
several  white -sailed  boats  had  come 
slowly  to  land,  and  their  light-hearted 
crews  were  seen  sauntering  along  the 
Elm  Walk  toward  home  ;  till  the  vil 
lagers'  cattle,  returning  from  the  scanty 
herbage  of  the  autumnal  forest-range  to 
be  milked  and  fed,  straggled,  lowing, 
along  the  shady  road.  It  held  him  there, 
stirring  faint  thoughts  and  doubts,  and  a 
scruple  or  two — just  stirring  them,  but 
with  no  Bethesdal  power  of  cure.  He 
would  have  been  glad,  at  the  moment, 
to  hear  that  Terence  had  escaped  from 
prison,  provided  he  could  have  been  as 
sured  that  the  young  fellow  would  never 
cross  his  path  again.  But  to  redeem 
his  victim  from  penal  servitude  by  paying 
back  the  sum  he  had  gained  by  his  con 
viction,  and  donning  his  own  shabby 
suit  again— that  never  crossed  his  mind. 


He  began  to  wonder  whether  some  of 
the  dwellers  in  that  quiet  village  might 
not  be  living  happier  lives  than  himself, 
even  if  they  did  work  day  by  day.  But 
he  had  no  desire  to  change  places  with 
them  and  try  the  experiment.  He  must 
find  a  shorter  road  to  a  living  :  perhaps 
he  could,  honestly.  If  not —  Then  it 
occurred  to  him  that  he  was  wasting  his 
time  when  he  might  already  have  seen 
Cranstoun.  He  rose,  shook  off  his 
thoughts  and  strode  hastily  toward  the 
village. 

Two  hours  later  he  knocked  at  Cran- 
stoun's  door. 

The  servant-girl  took  from  a  small 
box  hanging  against  the  wall  of  the  en 
trance-hall  a  scrap  of  paper  and  a  pen 
cil,  which  she  handed  to  Cassiday,  say 
ing,  «  Your  name,  please,  sir." 

He  wrote  it,  and  followed  to  the 
office-door.  Hearing  Cranstoun's  voice 
repeating,  in  a  tone  of  inquiry,  «  Cassi 
day  ?  Cassiday  ?"  he  entered  unan 
nounced. 

"  Yes,  an  old  friend  of  yours.  You 
mustn't  forget  his  name.  You  remember 
me,  don't  you  ?" 

"  Of  course,  but  I  thought  you  were 
killed  at  the  battle  of  Cerro  Gordo." 

"  A  cut  across  the  ear,"  pointing  to 
it :  "  that  was  all — the  scar  of  honorable 
service,  Mr.  Cranstoun.  Shall  I  take  a 
chair  ?" 

«  Certainly.  I  didn't  notice  you  were 
standing.  I'm  glad  to  see  you  again." 

Cranstoun's  face,  as  the  other  knew 
by  experience,  never  furnished  an  index 
as  to  the  truth  or  falsehood  of  such  an 
assertion  as  that  last.  So  his  visitor 
asked  bluntly : 

"  Do  you  happen  to  have  anything  on 
hand  that  I  can  help  in  ?" 

"Nothing — that  is,  nothing  in  the 
old  line.  It  is  better  we  should  be  frank 
with  each  other,.  Mr. — "  glancing  at  the 
paper — "  Mr.  Cassiday.  I've  done  well 
since  you  saw  me.  This  house  is  my 
own,  with  three  or  four  more,  and  a 
couple  of  sections  of  good  land  beside." 

"  I'm  glad  to  hear  it." 

"  Now  observe  !  There's  a  time  for 
everything.  The  time  has  passed,  years 
ago,  when  I  thought  it  worth  while  to  do 


BEYOND  THE  BREAKERS. 


business  at  a  risk.  I  never  do  any  such 
now.  I  can't  afford  it." 

"Nor  I." 

"  Indeed  ?  What's  become  of  my 
friend  Bryan  Delorny  ?" 

"  He  has  disappeared  :  you  won't  be 
troubled  with  him  any  more.  I've  come 
out  respectable." 

«  You  !" 

«  Why  not  ?" — taking  a  linen  bag  from 
an  inside  waistcoat  pocket  and  pouring 
the  contents  on  the  table.  "  I  once  saw 
a  young  fellow  show  his  money  like  that, 
and  he  repented  it  bitterly  afterward. 
But  I'm  safe  with  you,  Mr.  Cranstoun. 
We  were  in  the  same  boat  together  at  a 
risky  time,  and  we  mustn't  quarrel," 
pocketing  the  gold. 

«  Why  should  I  quarrel  with  you  ?" 

"  Not  one  reason  why  you  should,  and 
at  least  ten  very  good  reasons  why  you 
shouldn't.  Could  not  you  get  me  some 
thing  to  do — in  the  safe  line,  but  not  too 
hard  work  ?" 

"  What  sort  ?" 

"  Well,  suppose  we  say — coachman  to 
Mr.  Hartland." 

Cranstoun,  off  his  guard  for  a  moment, 
turned  sharply  on  Cassiday,  but  the  lat 
ter  stood  the  look  without  the  slightest 
indication  that  he  noticed  it.  Then  the 
lawyer  asked  quietly,  « What  do  you 
know  of  him  ?" 

"  They  were  talking  in  the  tavern,  at 
the  supper-table,  about  the  match  pair 
of  sorrels  he  bought  for  his  carriage  last 
week.  I  hate  sorrels,  they're  so  hard 
to  keep  clean  ;  but  a  man  can't  have 
everything  just  to  his  hand.  They  said 
a  good  deal  about  him,  and — "  looking 
at  Cranstoun  and  adding  in  an  indifferent 
tone  —  "about  some  niece  of  his,  I 
think." 

This  time  Cranstoun  was  on  his  guard, 
and  he  merely  asked,  in  a  tone  as  in 
different  as  the  other's,  "Ah  !  what  did 
they  have  to  say  about  her  ?" 

"  Well,  I  didn't  take  much  notice : 
some  rigmarole,  I  believe,  about  a  young 
man  that  was  courting  her,  but  I've  for 
gotten  the  name." 

Cranstoun  never  swore — aloud.  And 
if  he  did  sometimes  curse  a  man  in  his 
heart,  the  spark  of  profitless,  unregulated 


irritation  speedily  went  out.  The  tend 
ency  of  his  temperment  was  not  to  hate 
his  fellow-creatures,  but  to  use  them. 
And  tltis  man  before  him,  who  had  just 
turned  up  so  unexpectedly — there  were 
useful  points  about  him,  if  he  'was  im 
pertinent.  Here  the  fellow  had  proba 
bly  been  but  a  couple  of  hours  in  Chis- 
kauga,  and  it  seemed  doubtful  whether 
he  hadn't  already  made  some  shrewd 
guesses  at  matters  which  he  (Cranstoun) 
had  no  mind  the  public  should  know 
anything  about.  A  dangerous  man,  too, 
to  have  for  an  enemy.  He  turned  all 
this  over  in  his  mind,  silently,  for  sev 
eral  minutes,  Cassiday,  the  while,  main 
taining  his  look  of  unconcern,  and  ap 
parently  occupied  in  critical  examination 
of  a  portrait  of  Chief-Justice  Marshall 
over  the  fireplace.  At  last  Cranstoun 
said  : 

"  I  think  you  once  told  me  you  had 
been  two  years  apprentice  to  a  miller  in 
the  old  country." 

"  Yes,  and  I  never  was  more  sick  of 
anything  in  my  life.  Just  before  I  ran 
away,  I  went  to  see  a  girl  I  used  to  care 
a  good  deal  about,  and  the  hussy  sang, 
right  to  my  face,  some  old  Scotch  song 
about 

'  Dusty  was  his  coat,  and  dusty  was  his  siller : 
Dusty  was  the  kiss  that  I  gat  frae  the  miller.' 

I'd  rather  take  care  of  the  sorrels." 

"  But  Mr.  Hartland  has  somebody 
else  to  take  care  of  them,  just  at  pres 
ent." 

"  So  you  want  to  recommend  me  as  a 
hand  to  Nelson  Tyler  ?" 

« Hang  the  fellow !"  thought  Cran 
stoun.  Then  aloud:  "When  did  you 
get  to  Chiskauga?" 

"  Just  before  supper." 

"You've  been  making  good  use  of 
your  time,  it  seems.  Maybe  you  know 
that  the  miller  has  a  pretty  daughter  ?" 

"  No,  I  didn't  know  he  had  a  daugh 
ter  at  all." 

"  He  has — the  best  rider,  too,  in  the 
county.  She  took  the  red  ribbon  at  our 
agricultural  fair  last  year." 

"  Her  father  would  want  me  to  slave 
all  day  in  the  dirt  for  a  paltry  thirty  dol 
lars  a  month,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  He's  short  of  hands,  I  know  :  he  11 


BEYOND  THE  BREAKERS. 


give  you  that,  at  least,  if  I  recommend 
you  as  a  skilled  mill-hand  from  the  old 
country;  and  then  —  hark  ye,  Cassi- 
day— " 

«  Well !" 

"  I'll  make  it  as  much  more  if  you'll 
stay  there  a  month  or  so,  and  do  a  small 
job  for  me." 

"  Ah  !  But  let  us  understand  one 
another  at  the  start.  I've  been  thinking 
it  must  be  an  infernal  ugly  thing  to  be 
shut  up  in  one  of  them  accursed  jail- 
cages  for  five  or  six  years.  I'm  not  go 
ing  to  risk  it  again — not  for  ten  times 
what  you  offer  me." 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you,  man,  that  I  was 
out  of  that  line  myself  ever  so  long  ago  ? 
It's  a  good  honest  deed  I  want  you  to 
help  me  in." 

"Well,  that  is  something  new." 

"  Let  us  have  no  sneering.  I  want  to 
save  a  poor  girl  from  destruction." 

Cassiday  looked  to  see  if  all  this  was 
serious  :  it  seemed  so,  by  Cranstoun's 
face,  as  he  added  : 

"  There's  a  young  fellow  in  this  village 
sets  himself  up  for  somebody.  His  name 
is  Mowbray — John  Evelyn  Mowbray. 
He  gets  himself  called  Evelyn,  as  if 
John  were  not  good  enough  for  him." 
Then,  seeing  a  smile  on  Cassiday's  face, 
"  Maybe  you  know  him,  too  ?" 

"  No  ;  but — now  I  think  of  it — that 
was  the  name  of  the  spark  they  said 
was  making  up  to  Miss  Celia." 

"Never  mind  Miss  Celia.  If  you 
watch  this  young  cock-of-the-walk,  as  I 
wish  you  to  do — (don't  go  and  forget 
his  name  again — John  Mowbray) — if  you 
keep  on  his  tracks  a  week  or  two,  you'll 
find  out  that  it's  somebody  else  he  cares 
about— a  certain  Miss  Ellen  Tyler,  that 
I  saw  him  help  from  her  saddle  last 
September,  when  she  won  that  red 
ribbon." 

"  You  think  he  wants  to  marry  her  ?" 

«  Not  I.  He  does  little  else, 'all  day, 
than  ride  a  flea-bitten  gray,  with  Arabian 
blood  in  him :  the  brute's  handsome 
enough,  if  he  were  only  paid  for.  Then 
the  fellow  brags  of  the  old  family  he 
comes  of,  and  is  down  upon  you  with 
his  fashionable  connections.  He  marry 
a  miller's  daughter  !" 


"So — that's  the  game.  Well,  Mr. 
Cranstoun,  you've  made  me  a  liberal 
offer :  thirty  dollars  a  month  to  look 
after  a  pretty  girl  and  her  lover.  It's 
light  work  ;  that  suits  me  well  enough  ; 
and  they'll  have  to  get  up  early  in  the 
morning  if  they  intend  to  do  much  court 
ing  without  my  finding  it  out.  But  I 
can't  stand  the  dust  and  the  meal-bags 
more  than  one  month.  Don't  you  want 
some  watching  done  where  a  man  hasn't 
to  carry  sacks  on  his  back  ? — at  Mr. 
Hartland's  or  any  other  good  place  ?  I 
took  lessons  from  Rarey  after  I  returned 
from  Mexico,  and  I  have  a  certificate 
from  him."  (Cranstoun  made  a  note 
of  this.)  "  If  I  don't  understand  horses 
and  how  to  keep  them — me  that  have 
slept  with  them  for  years — I'd  like  to 
know  who  does." 

"  You're  well  fitted  for  the  place,  and 
I  think  I  can  get  it  for  you.  But  as  to 
Mowbray  and  that  girl,  I  must  have 
proofs,  Cassiday — evidence  that  would 
stand  in  a  court  of  justice.  Her  father 
must  be  put  on  his  guard.  I  like  the 
girl :  we  mustn't  have  her  ruined." 

Cassiday  was  right  when  he  took  it 
for  granted  that  Cranstoun  would  never 
have  meddled  with  this  matter,  nor 
promised  him  a  single  dollar,  if  he  had 
not  had  his  own  ends  to  subserve  by  ex 
posing  Mowbray.  But  he  was  wrong 
when  he  concluded  that  there  was  noth 
ing  but  sheer  hypocrisy  in  these  last 
words  of  his.  Cranstoun  did  take  a 
friendly  interest  in  the  brave,  bright-eyed 
girl,  and  did  wish  her  saved,  just  as 
Cassiday,  sitting  on  that  mound,  had 
wished  Terence  out  of  prison.  Yet  both 
of  these  feeble  stirrings  of  benevolence 
might  have  served  to  eke  out  a  certain 
subterrene  pavement.  Neither  of  the 
men  would  have  put  himself  specially 
out  of  the  way,  or  made  any  serious 
sacrifice,  to  rescue  from  death  the  object 
of  his  barren  well-wishes. 

Next  morning  Cassiday  inquired  the 
way  to  Mr.  Hartland's  house.  He  .iad 
a  curiosity  about  its  inmates,  and  a  vague 
idea  that  he  might  find  out  something 
concerning  them  by  reconnoitring  the 
premises.  He  was  directed  to  a  cross 
street,  of  which  the  continuation  was  the 


BEYOND  THE  BREAKERS. 


avenue  running  south  through  the  rich 
champaign  country  already  described. 
He  passed  several  pretty  houses  of 
humble  pretension,  but  neatly  kept  and 
painted  ;  some  having  ivy  stretching  up 
between  the  green  shutters ;  most  of 
them  with  porches  of  trellis-work,  over 
grown  with  honeysuckle  or  other  creeper 
— all  suggesting  the  idea  of  home-comfort 
in  a  modest  way.  Hartland's  residence 
was  on  the  right,  the  last  house  in  the 
street,  with  a  pasture  of  several  acres 
adjoining.  It  was  a  spacious,  well-built 
mansion  of  bright  red  brick,  surmounted 
with  dormer  windows ;  a  nicely  kept 
shrubbery  in  front,  and  the  entrance  by 
a  pillared  porch  on  the  side.  A  light 
dearborn,  to  which  was  harnessed  a 
handsome,  good-sized  pony,  stood  be 
fore  the  front  gate :  there  were  no  sorrels 
visible. 

Cassiday  sauntered  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  street  till  two  ladies  issued 
from  the  house  and  entered  the  carriage. 
Just  as  they  were  about  to  start,  a  young 
man,  whom  Cassiday  had  previously 
noticed  riding  up  from  the  direction  of 
the  lake,  turned  into  the  street.  The 
horse  he  rode  instantly  arrested  Cassi- 
day's  attention — a  light  gray  of  splendid 
action  and  lofty  carriage,  with  minute 
mouse-colored  spots  about  the  head  and 
neck.  The  rider,  good-looking  and  well- 
dressed,  saluted  the  ladies,  bowing  low  ; 
then,  after  a  brief  inquiry  touching  their 
health,  passing  on. 

Cassiday  observed  two  things — one, 
that  the  younger  of  the  two  ladies,  a 
girl  of  much  beauty,  who  held  the  reins 
as  driver,  blushed  deeply  as  the  horse 
man  addressed  them,  at  the  same  time 
glancing  uneasily  at  the  windows  of  the 


house  ;  the  other,  that  the  elder  lady 
said  to  the  groom  who  had  been  holding 
the  pony,  "  Potter,  if  any  one  calls,  say 
we  have  gone  to  Mr.  Sydenham's,  and 
shall  be  back  in  an  hour  or  two."  From 
all  which  the  said  Cassiday  concluded — 

First,  That  he  had  seen  Mrs.  Hart- 
land  and  her  niece  Celia. 

Second,  That  the  horseman  on  that 
showy  gray  gelding  was  John  Evelyn 
Mowbray. 

Third,  That  Miss  Celia  preferred  a 
handsome  young  man  to  a  middle-aged 
lawyer. 

Fourth  (this  he  gathered  from  the 
furtive  glance  at  the  window),  That  the 
guardian,  as  guardians  will,  probably 
held  to  a  different  opinion  ;  and — a  co 
rollary  from  the  last  deduction — that 
Cranstoun's  influence  with  Hartland  was 
likely  to  be  considerable.  Thence  came 
hopes  that  he  himself  might  supplant 
Potter,  slipping  into  a  snug,  easy  place. 

Before  noon  he  had  delivered  Cran 
stoun's  letter  at  Tylers  mill,  and  made 
a  satisfactory  contract  with  its  owner  to 
begin  work  with  him  next  day. 

He  retired  that  night  well  satisfied 
with  himself.  It  was  all  open  to  him  now, 
clear  as  noonday — the  rivalry,  the  re 
venge  and  all  the  rest :  he  had  looked 
over  Cranstoun's  hand  and  seen  his 
cards.  This  was  what  Cassiday  said  to 
himself.  Yet  he  was  premature  in  his 
self-gratulation.  He  -to7  made  good  use 
of  his  first  twenty-four  hours  in  Chis- 
kauga,  no  doubt,  and  had  found  out 
more  than  he  could  reasonably  have  ex 
pected  ;  but  he  overrated  the  measure 
of  his  discoveries.  Cranstoun  had  cards 
in  reserve  which  no  human  eye  had 
detected. 


PART    II. 


CHAPTER  V. 
BAVENO. 

WHILE  Miss  Celia  Pembroke— for 
that  was  the  name  of  Mrs.  Hart- 
land's  niece — is  driving  her  aunt  to  Mr. 
Sydenham's,  our  readers  shall  have  some 
information  touching  the  early  life  of  that 
gentleman. 

A  Philadelphia!),  of  Quaker  family, 
Franklin  Sydenham  had  left  the  Society 
of  Friends,  respecting  them  and  by  them 
respected.  Having  devoted  a  few  years 
to  the  study  of  law,  he  bid  fair  to  do 
honor  to  his  profession.  But,  at  the  age 
of  nineteen,  having  a  handsome  fortune 
left  him  (consisting  chiefly,  however,  of 
a  large  tract  of  land  adjoining  the  village 
of  Chiskauga),  he  was  tempted  to  in 
dulge  himself  in  a  few  years  of  European 
travel.  In  London  he  met  the  Sel- 
bournes,  a  delightful  English  family,  who 
resided  chiefly  at  their  country-seat  in 
Devonshire.  In  that  retired  and  beauti 
ful  spot  Sydenham  became  almost  do 
mesticated  among  them,  joined  with 
ardor  in  the  field-sports  of  the  sons,  and 
won  the  heart  of  the  only  daughter. 
Her  mother,  Imelda  Gherardi,  of  an  an 
cient  but  decayed  Italian  family,  had  be 
come  acquainted  with  Mr.  Selbourne  at 
Florence,  whither  he  had  been  attracted 
by  love  of  art. 


Anna  Selbourne-  was  a  woman  of  re 
markable  idiosyncrasies,  alike  of  mind 
and  body.  Her  large  dark  eyes  and 
jet-black  hair  were  a  maternal  inherit 
ance,  while  her  fresh,  bright  complexion 
and  ruddy  cheeks  betokened  Northern 
blood.  Her  step  had  the  firm,  free  tread 
of  the  English  gentlewoman,  to  whom 
ten  or  twelve  miles  was  but  a  pleasant 
morning's  walk  ;  and  her  form  had  the 
willow-grace  of  the  Italian,  to  whom 
comes  the  poetry  of  motion  as  words 
come  to  the  improvisatrice,  spirit-moved. 
So,  also,  of  mental  gifts,  strangely  ming 
led.  There  was  the  calm  good  sense, 
the  steady  constancy,  the  unpaltering 
truth,  the  modest  dignity  of  her  Saxon 
ancestors,  without  a  particle  of  their  cold 
ness  or  prudery  or  reserve.  Beneath 
the  habitually  quiet  bearing  there  lay — 
derived  from  a  more  genial  clime — the 
generous  impulse,  the  ready-kindling 
emotion,  quick  sympathies,  noble  en 
thusiasm — Juliet's  warmth,  Arria's  devo 
tion.  When  she  gave  her  hand  to  a 
friend,  it  was  with  her  heart  in  it.  And 
when,  at  the  altar,  she  plighted  to  the 
young  Philadelphian  the  love  that  was 
already  his  by  ties  far  stronger  than 
plighted  vows,  it  was  a  guerdon  rich  as 
any  which  in  this  sublunary  sphere  man 
is  permitted  to  win. 

I  believe  there  are  few  thoughtful  men 

33 


34 


BEYOND    THE   BREAKERS. 


who  have  not  come  to  regard  as  one  of 
the  least  explicable  among  the  great  rid 
dles  of  the  earthly  economy  the  rarity 
of  well-assorted  marriages.  It  might 
be  so  different,  one  cannot  help  thinking. 
The  adaptations  for  harmony  so  wonder 
ful  !  The  elements  of  happiness  so 
manifold  and  so  rich  !  Yet  how  often — 
how  miserably  sometimes — it  all  mis 
carries  !  The  waters  of  Paradise  turned 
to  fountains  of  bitterness — the  gifts  of 
Heaven  perverted  to  curses  upon  earth  ! 

I  do  not  mean  that  there  are  few 
unions  yielding  reasonable  comfort, 
friendly  relations,  a  life  free  from  open 
quarrel  or  secret  heart-burning ;  but  I 
speak  of  very  marriage,  without  flaw  or 
jar — a  mating  alike  of  the  material,  with 
its  intangible  affinities  and  its  wondrous 
magnetisms,  and  of  the  immaterial  princi 
ple  within  that  survives  the  death-change. 
I  speak  of  a  heart-home  pervaded  by  har 
mony  not  only  unbroken — immutable  as 
that  of  the  spheres  ;  felt  to  be  so  by 
those  whom  it  blesses,  calms,  satisfies  ; 
a  social  state  to  which,  when  man  and 
woman  attain,  there  remains  nothing  in 
the  way  of  earthly  need  or  acquisition, 
save  daily  bread,  to  be  coveted  or  prayed 
for. 

Some  think  that,  in  this  trial-phase  of 
our  existence,  no  such  state  of  harmony 
and  happiness  is  to  be  found.  Among 
the  few  who  do  find  it  none  of  these 
skeptics  will  have  place.  No  entrance 
into  that  temple  except  for  those  who  be 
lieve  !  Without  faith  in  the  Good  and  the 
Beautiful — the  Good  that  is  felt,  not  seen 
— the  Beautiful  that  must  be  conceived 
before  it  is  realized — a  man  is  shut  out 
from  the  highest  enjoyment.  And  such 
a  man  can  do  little  to  meliorate  the  world 
or  elevate  his  race. 

Sydenham,  despite  his  Quaker  origin, 
was  romantic.  I  remind  those  who  may 
think  slightingly  of  him  on  that  account 
that  ROMANCE,  though  a  word  of  in 
different  reputation,  has  some  claim  to 
excellent  etymology,  having  been  traced 
by  certain  philologists  to  the  Welsh 
rhamanta,  to  rise  over,  to  soar,  to  reach 
to  a  distance.  In  addition,  the  young 
man  had  an  inherent  love  of  excellence. 
He  sought,  even  in  such  trifling  matters 


as  personal  purchases,  the  best  of  every 
thing.  Whatever  he  did,  trifling  or  im 
portant,  his  instinct  was  to  strive  therein 
to  excel ;  not  from  vulgar  ambition,  but 
because  he  found  pleasure  in  the  strife. 
His  future  brothers-in-law  had  a  touch 
of  aversion  to  an  American  alliance,  but 
Sydenham's  personal  accomplishments 
overbore  the  prejudice.  A  "deuced 
gentlemanly  young  fellow,"  they  voted 
him  among  themselves :  "can  ride  across 
country  with  the  best  of  us,  fence  like  a 
Frenchman,  and  then  shame  us  all  in  the 
ball-room  at  night." 

But  it  was  something  else  that  at 
tracted  the  sister.  Sydenham  was  a 
devout  believer  in  the  IDEAL.  He  had 
strong  faith  in  his  kind.  He  was  a 
dreamer  of  what  men  may  do  and  may 
become.  Every  struggle  for  popular 
liberty,  or  what  he  regarded  as  such, 
awoke  his  warm  sympathies.  William 
of  Orange,  Hampclen,  Kosciusko,  La- 
martine,  La  Fayette,  these  were  his  fa 
vorite  heroes.  He  had  spent  a  week 
with  the  latter  at  La  Grange,  the  genial 
old  man  driving  him  out,  in  his  own  car 
riage,  from  Paris,  and  recounting  to  him, 
the  while,  with  charming  garrulity,  origi 
nal  anecdotes  of  two  Revolutions.  One 
of  these,  presenting  the  Father  of  our 
Country  in  a  rare  aspect,  often  recurred 
to  Sydenham  in  after  years,  vividly  re 
calling  as  it  did  the  tender  eyes  and  the 
gracious,  loving  manner  which  made  the 
grand  old  Frenchman  the  idol  of  all 
young  people  who  were  fortunate  enough 
to  share  his  friendship. 

It  was  just  before  the  unmasking  of 
the  sole  traitor  who  loomed  up  during 
our  Revolution.  Washington  had  ac 
cepted  an  invitation  from  Arnold  to 
breakfast  with  him  at  West  Point  on 
the  very  day  the  plot  was  discovered,  but 
was  prevented  from  keeping  his  engage 
ment  by  what  men  call  chance — by  the 
earnest  request,  namely,  of  an  old  officer, 
near  whose  station  they  passed,  to  spend 
the  night  there  and  inspect  some  works 
in  the  neighborhood.  Next  day,  while 
Washington,  with  his  staff",  including 
La  Fayette,  were  seated  at  table  at  this 
officer's  quarters,  a  despatch  was  brought 
to  the  American  general,  which  he  im- 


BETOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


35 


mediately  opened  and  read  and  then  laid 
down,  without  comment.  No  alteration 
was  visible  in  his  countenance,  and  he 
remained  perfectly  silent.  Conversation 
dropped  among  his  suite  ;  and,  after 
some  minutes,  the  general,  beckoning 
La  Fayette  to  follow  him,  passed  to  an 
inner  apartment,  turned  to  his  young 
friend  without  uttering  a  syllable,  placed 
the  fatal  despatch  in  his  hands,  and  then, 
giving  way  to  an  ungovernable  burst  of 
feeling,  fell  on  his  neck  and  sobbed  aloud. 
The  effect  produced  on  the  young  French 
marquis,  accustomed  to  regard  his  gene 
ral  (cold  and  dignified  in  his  usual  man 
ner)  as  devoid  of  the  usual  weaknesses 
of  humanity,  may  be  imagined.  "  I  be 
lieve,"  said  La  Fayette  in  relating  this 
anecdote,  "  that  this  was  the  only  occa 
sion,  throughout  that  long  and  some 
times  hopeless  struggle,  that  Washing 
ton  ever  gave  way,  even  for  a  moment, 
under  a  reverse  of  fortune  ;  and  perhaps 
I  was  the  only  human  being  who  ever 
witnessed  in  him  an  exhibition  of  feeling 
so  foreign  to  his  temperament.  As  it 
was,  he  recovered  himself  before  I  had 
perused  the  communication  that  had 
given  rise  to  his  emotion;  and  when  we 
returned  to  his  staff  not  a  trace  remained 
on  his  countenance  either  of  grief  or 
despondency." 

With  such  antecedents  Sydenham  was 
a  welcome  guest,  especially  to  the  mis 
tress  of  Acquabella — so  the  family  seat 
in  Devonshire  was  called. 

The  family  of  Imelda  Gherardi  had 
been  devoted  Liberals  ;  and  she,  though 
now  presiding  over  an  English  house 
hold,  retained  all  her  enthusiasm  for  the 
cause  of  her  country's  independence. 
"  Italia  Unita "  was  the  idea  of  her 
life.  An  Italian  republic,  stretching 
from  Switzerland  to  Sicily — of  that  she 
dreamed  ;  for  that,  in  her  adopted  coun 
try,  she  schemed  and  planned.  Syden 
ham  was  charmed  with  her  earnest  zeal, 
entered  into  her  patriotic  projects  with 
faith  and  sympathy,  and  became  a  great 
favorite  with  Mrs.  Selbourne.  Anna, 
sharing  in  a  measure  her  mother's  ardor, 
listened  to  their  discussions  with  kind 
ling  eyes.  In  these  discussions — under 
the  influence  of  those  eyes— Sydenham's 


sunny  nature  came  out.  His  glowing 
fancy,  his  generous  aspirations,  his  bursts 
of  eloquence  when  encouraged  by  sym 
pathy  in  his  listeners,  made  a  daily- 
deepening  impression  on  the  girl's  heart. 
And  Sydenham,  on  his  part,  uncon 
sciously  contracted  a  habit,  as  the  con 
versation  passed  from  topic  to  topic,  of 
turning  inquiringly  to  the  dark  eyes  for 
approval  or  dissent.  Could  it  all  end 
except  in  one  way  ? 

With  the  intermission  of  a  brief  visit 
to  Philadelphia,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sydenham 
had  resided  for  several  years  in  England, 
partly  in  London,  partly  at  Acquabella. 
There  they  lingered,  fearing  the  result 
of  Mrs.  Selbourne's  drooping  health. 
Shortly  after  her  death  they  set  out  for 
Italy,  taking  with  them  their  only  child, 
the  little  Leoline,  then  seven  years  old. 

After  a  brief  sojourn  in  Switzerland, 
they  passed,  by  Napoleon's  wonderful 
road,  the  Simplon,  into  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  regions  of  Piedmont.  How 
amazing  the  change  !  How  lovely  that 
first  night  at  Baveno  !  The  sweet  South 
ern  air — the  moonlight  on  the  placid 
lake,  on  the  softly-rounded,  olive-clad 
hills,  on  the  trellised  vines,  so  picturesque 
compared  to  the  formal  vineyards  of 
France  —  all  in  such  contrast  to  the 
scenes  they  had  left  behind — the  giant 
mountain-peaks  of  granite,  snow-covered, 
piercing  the  clouds,  the  vast  glacier,  brist 
ling  with  ice-blocks,  sliding  down,  an  en- 
croacher  on  the  valley's  verdure — in  such 
marvelous  contrast  to  all  that  region  of 
rock  and  ice,  and  mountain-torrent  and 
rugged  path,  and  grand,  rude  majesty  of 
aspect — it  seemed  like  passing  in  a  sin 
gle  day  into  another  and  a  gentler  world. 

To  Anna  Sydenham  a  region  of  en 
chantment  and  romance  !  Her  mother's 
native  land,  that  she  had  never  yet  seen 
but  in  dreams  !  Once  the  Mistress  of 
the  World,  and  still  the  Queen  of  Art. 
But  it  was  not  of  ancient  renown  or 
modern  celebrity  the  daughter  was  think 
ing.  It  was  of  the  fairy-land  of  her 
mother's  adoration  — the  Italy  which 
that  mother,  even  in  her  pleasant  Eng 
lish  home,  never  named  but  with  wistful 
eyes. 

And  Anna  loved  it  now,  at  first  sight, 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


for  its  own  beautiful  sake.  Mere  life 
was  a  pleasure  to  her  in  its  balmy, 
dreamy  atmosphere  and  under  its  pure, 
deep-blue  sky.  She  drank  in  enjoyment 
as  never  in  her  life  before.  They  made 
charming,  quiet  excursions  on  the  lakes 
— Maggiore,  Lugano,  Como  ;  rowed  by 
young  girls  with  pensive,  oval  faces,  who 
sung  barcaroles  as  they  rowed.  They 
returned  always,  however,  to  the  spot 
where  they  had  spent  their  first  Italian 
night — Baveno  ;  for  they  had  come  to 
like  its  humble,  country  albergo,  clean 
and  fresh,  and  had  taken  a  fancy  to  their 
simple  apartments,  with  gay  furniture 
and  polished,  tesselated  floor.  Little 
Lela,  too,  as  they  usually  called  her,  ever 
begged  them  to  go  back  to  the  pretty, 
pretty  room  where,  on  the  first  evening 
of  her  arrival,  sitting  at  the  open  win 
dow  on  her  mother's  knee,  she  had 
gathered  clusters  of  grapes  from  the 
overhanging  vine. 

One  fine  evening  they  had  crossed 
to  that  wonderful  I  sola  Bella,  once  a 
bare  and  barren  island  of  slate  rock, 
rfow  a  gorgeous  garden  teeming  with  the 
vegetation  of  the  tropics.  They  had 
explored  its  vast  palace,  lingered  in  its 
orange  groves  ;  and  Lela,  passionately 
fond  of  flowers,  returned  with  her  pin 
afore  full  of  magnificent  specimens. 
When  they  reached  the  inn,  the  child, 
tired  of  pleasure,  curled  herself  up  on  a 
couch  and  went  fast  to  sleep,  with  the 
flowers  in  her  arms.  Sydenham  and 
his  young  wife  sat  down  by  a  large  re 
cessed  window,  set  entirely  open  after 
Italian  fashion.  Beneath  lay  the  Lago 
Maggiore,  motionless,  serene.  The  full 
moon,  a  few  hours  high  and  directly 
opposite,  shone  down  on  the  dark  blue 
waters,  through  that  strangely  trans 
parent  atmosphere,  with  a  splendor 
which  Anna,  during  all  her  island-life, 
had  never  seen  matched.  So  brilliant 
was  the  long  streak  of  light  on  the 
mirror-surface  of  the  lake,  formed  under 
the  line  of  the  moon  by  her  reflected 
rays,  that  one  realized  the  poetical  fancy 
which  dreams  of  such  as  a  path  of  radi 
ance  leading  to  some  far-off  world  of 
beauty  and  of  rest. 

At  first  that  glorious  night-scene  awed 


these  young  hearts  ;  then  gradually  the 
awe  gave  way  to  gentler  emotions.  The 
delicious  breath  of  Italy  came  over  them, 
softening,  inspiring — in  Anna's  case  sad 
dening  too.  Is  the  fullness  of  joy  so 
nearly  allied  to  fear  ?  Her  hand  in  her 
husband's,  she  sat  long,  in  silence,  tran 
quil.  Then  he  felt  her  hand  tremble — 
then  suddenly  grasp  his  own.  He 
started. 

"  Forgive  me  !"  she  cried.  «  It  was 
too  strong  for  me." 

«  What  is  it,  Anna  ?" 

"  Nothing.  A  silly  fancy.  Are  you 
quite  well  to-night,  Frank  dear  ?" 

"  Perfectly.  Never  in  my  life,  I  think, 
was  I  better — or  happier." 

«  Thank  God  !" 

"What  is  the  matter?  Why,  my 
child,  you  are  shivering.  My  poor,  little 
darling  !" 

"  I  will  be  stronger  and  banish  such 
nonsense." 

"  What  nonsense  ?" 

«  It  has  all  come  from  a  fisherwoman's 
sad  story,  I  think.  You  remember,  that, 
in  returning  from  the  Isola  Bella,  we 
passed  close  by  that  poor  little  Isola  dei 
Pescatori,  and  that  there  was  a  crowd 
of  fishermen  and  their  families  assembled 
round  one  of  their  rude  hovels." 

«  I  noticed  that." 

"  But  you  did  not  hear  the  answer  one 
of  the  boat-girls  gave  me  when  I  asked 
her  if  anything  was  the  matter." 

"  I  did  not  catch  the  meaning  :  you 
know  how  much  my  Italian  needs  brush 
ing  up." 

«  Only  because  you  devote  so  much 
more  time  to  German.  This  was  what 
the  girl  said:  'A  fisherman  was  drowned 
yesterday  ;  they  brought  the  body  home 
to-day  :  she  will  be  very,  very  lonely,  the 
poor  woman.'  I  think  a  stranger's  death 
never  so  touched  me  before.  I  could 
not  even  talk  to  you  about  it." 

«  I  am  an  excellent  swimmer.  You 
foolish  child,  I  shall  not  be  drowned." 

"  No,"  with  a  faint  smile — "  No  ;  but 
there  was  more,  de'ar  Frank.  You  re 
member  what  you  were  reading  to  me, 
yesterday,  in  the  boat  as  we  returned 
from  visiting  that  gigantic  statue  of  St. 
Borromeo  ?" 


"Oh,  Frank,  you   mustn't  go  there  before   me." 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


37 


«  Some  very  indifferent  scraps  of 
translations,  I  believe — bits  from  Schil 
ler's  '  Death  of  Wallenstein.'  " 

"  Yes,  and  among  them  that  exquisite 
heart-wail  of  Tekla's.  While  I  was 
sitting  with  my  hand  in  yours,  just  now, 
looking  across  at  that  Fisherman's  Is 
land,  three  lines  of  your  translation  came 
upon  me  so  vividly  I  could  not  help 
grasping  your  hand.  It  actually  seemed 
to  me  as  if  some  one  repeated  in  my 
ears — 

'  Thou,  Father,  in  mercy  thy  child  recall ! 
Earth's  holiest  pleasures  I've  tasted  them  all ; 
I  have  loved,  I  have  lived — let  me  die  !' " 

She  shuddered — eyes  moist,  face  pale. 
Sydenham  put  his  arms  around  her, 
gently  drawing  her  head  to  his  breast. 
He  touched  her  hands  ;  they  were  icy 
cold. 

«  We  have  been  overdoing  it,  dear," 
he  said.  "  You  must  rest  for  a  day  or 
two." 

"  I  think  it  is  this  eerie,  dreamy  cli 
mate,"  she  murmured  languidly,  "and 
that  moonlit  pathway  over  the  dark 
lake.  It  all  makes  me  think  of  Heaven." 
Then,  with  a  sudden  burst :  u  Oh,  Frank, 
Frank,  you  mustn't  go  there  before  me. 
If  you  did,  how  could  I  help  praying — 
like  Tekla  ?" 

At  that  moment  little  Lela  murmured 
in  her  sleep,  scarce  audibly :  Syden- 
ham's  ear  did  not  detect  the  faint  sound. 
Anna  was  by  the  couch  in  a  moment, 
kneeling  over  her.  The  child  did  not 
stir,  however,  relapsing  into  dreamless 
sleep. 

Then  the  mother  rose  and  crept  back 
to  her  husband's  arms.  He  felt  that  she 
was  sobbing — silently,  with  an  effort  to 
conceal  it.  During  all  their  married  life 
he  had  never  seen  her  so  agitated  with 
out  external  cause.  He  stroked  back 
the  black  tresses  again  and  again,  passed 
his  hand  gently,  repeatedly — scarce  know 
ing  why  or  being  conscious  of  what  he 
did — over  her  face  and  person.  The 
magnetic  touch  had  a  strangely-soothing 
influence.  Her  sobs  ceased.  Her  breath 
ing  came  free  and  regular  :  the  long  eye 
lashes  drooped  over  her  cheeks.  Then, 
in  a  low,  contrite  voice,  «  What  has  come 
over  me  ?"  she  said.  «  I  am  tormenting 


you  for  nothing,  Frank.  You  are  not 
going  to  die;  and  if  you  were,  is  our 
little  darling  to  be  deserted  ?  Tekla 
was  childless.  God  forgive  my  selfish 
thought !" 

What  a  transformation  maybe  wrought 
by  a  single  night's  quiet  rest !  The  next 
morning  Anna  was  all  her  bright,  racy 
self  again,  the  light  in  her  eye,  the  healthy 
color  on  her  cheek.  The  morning  was 
perfect,  a  gentle  breeze  from  the  lake 
coming  in  through  the  open  casements. 
Lela's  merry  outcry  as  she  arranged  her 
flowers  was  contagious. 

"  What  a  good-for-nothing  wife  you 
had  last  night,  Frank  !"  said  Anna,  laugh 
ing  gayly.  "Are  you  sure  some  fairy 
did  not  steal  me  away,  and  leave  that 
querulous  simpleton  in  my  place  ?" 

"  Likely  enough.  You  look,  this  morn 
ing,  as  if  you  had  been  among  the  fairies 
all  night.  You  are  radiant,  wherever  you 
have  been." 

"  I  ought  to  look  my  prettiest,  to  atone 
for  past  folly.  But  the  bad  child  begs 
pardon,  and  says  it  will  never?  never  do 
so  any  more.  And  the  never  is  to  be 
such  a  long  word.  We  are  going  to 
live  together  till  we  are — oh,  so  old  ! — 
till  we  have  ever  so  many  grandchildren 
clambering  over  our  knees.  And  I  shall 
not  scold  them,  even  if  they  do  pull  my 
cap  and  frills.  Ah  how  we  shall  laugh 
then — you  and  I — over  that  evening  at 
Baveno,  with  its  doleful  presentiments  !" 

"  But  you  suit  me,  even  if  you  are  a 
querulous  simpleton." 

"  Fie  !  How  can  you  expect  the  bad 
child  to  reform,  if  you  persuade  it  it 
wasn't  bad  at  all  ?  You  ought  to  shut 
it  up  and  feed  it,  for  a  day  at  least,  on 
bread  and  water." 

"  Too  glorious  a  morning  for  that !  I 
want  to  take  it  out  among  some  of  these 
vineyards  back  of  the  village,  and  give  it 
grapes  for  luncheon.  Will  it  go?" 

"  Of  course  it  will.  Rogues  don't 
fancy  hanging,  nor  bad  children  being 
shut  up  in  dark  closets." 

Their  child,  who  had  been  listening 
attentively,  opened  her  large,  brown  eyes 
in  wonder.  "  Poor,  perplexed  Lela !" 
said  the  mother,  laughing.  ;;  She's  not 
accustomed  to  hearing:  about  bad  chil- 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


dren  and  dark  closets.  Your  papa  was 
only  laughing  at  me,  pet.  You've  eaten 
all  the  grapes  from  around  that  window, 
and  we  are  going  out  to  get  some  more. 
^  Come  !" 

A  servant  entered  just  then  to  say 
that  the  principal  guide  to  the  Monte 
Monterone  had  come  to  offer  a  portan- 
tina,*  in  case  their  Excellencies  wished 
to  ascend  the  mountain  ;  but  they  de 
cided  to  adhere  to  their  original  plan. 

They  found  an  old  caleche,  easy  and 
roomy,  took  a  country  road,  shaded  by 
chestnuts,  and  bade  the  postboy  drive 
slowly,  that  they  might  fully  enjoy  the 
gay  scene.  He  found  some  little  diffi 
culty  in  obeying,  for  he  had  a  pair  of 
large,  spirited  stallions  that  he  was  train 
ing  for  sale  to  the  owners  of  the  Milan 
diligence. 

It  was  the  harvest-home  of  the  vigne- 
rons — why  won't  the  dictionary  let  us 
call  them  mncyarders  ? — the  season  of 
recompense  and  rejoicing,  when  the  re 
sult  of  the  year's  labor  was  collected 
and  secured.  The  handsome,  embrowned 
peasants,  in  their  picturesque  blouses, 
drove  their  teams  along  the  road  with 
light  hearts,  yet  with  a  certain  dignity,  as 
if  proud  of  the  load.  Every  face  was 
gay.  The  sounds  of  distant  music,  half 
lively,  half  plaintive,  came  over  to  them 
from  the  vineyards  and  olive  groves  as 
the  travelers  passed. 

When  midday  came,  they  sought 
shade  near  a  wayside  spring,  sheltered 
by  a  magnificent  old  chestnut.  Ah,  how 
every  incident  of  that  noonday  rest 
haunted  Sydenham's  memory  in  after 
years  ! 

But  now,  with  light  jest  and  careless 
hearts,  they  set  about  preparing  their 
frugal  meal.  The  cushions  from  the 
caleche  furnished  seats.  Bread  and  a 
bottle  of  light  wine  of  the  country,  with 
napkins  and  a  table-cloth,  were  the  con- 

*  A  portantina  is  a  species  of  easy  litter,  provided 
in  Italy  for  the  use  of  ladies  unaccustomed  to  exercise, 
or  invalids,  desirous  to  ascend  high  mountains — Vesu 
vius,  for  example.  The  Monte  Monterone,  situated 
just  behind  the  village  of  Baveno,  between  the  Lago 
Maggiore  and  the  little  lake  of  Orta,  is  three  or  four 
hundred  feet  higher  than  Vesuvius  ;  and  the  view  from 
its  summit  is  scarcely  excelled,  for  extent  and  magnifi 
cence,  by  that  from  the  Righi  itself. 


tents    of    a    basket    which     Sydenham 
emptied  on  the  bank. 

"  Now  I  must  fetch  the  grapes.  This 
vineyard  behind  us  looks  promising,  and 
the  men  are  but  a  little  way  off."  Then 
to  Lela  :  "  Will  you  go  with  me,  little 
pet  ?  I  want  your  mamma  to  rest." 

But  the  child  had  spied  some  gay 
wild-flowers  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
road,  and  they  were  a  greater  temptation 
than  grapes. 

"  I'm  going  to  gather  you  a  pretty 
nosegay  for  the  centre  of  the  dinner- 
table,  papa.  We  mustn't  dine  without 
flowers." 

So  Sydenham  took  the  empty  basket 
and  departed — alone  /If  guardian  spirits 
there  be,  commissioned  to  watch  over 
the  welfare  of  mortals,  where  was  Syden 
ham's  then  ?  Withheld,  it  may  be,  from 
interference  by  a  Wisdom  that  sees 
deeper  than  ours. 

Lela  strayed  off  across  the  road  to 
fulfill  her  promise  to  papa.  Her  Eng 
lish  nurse,  Susan,  who  had  come  with 
them,  as  on  such  occasions  she  usually 
did,  made  the  little  preparations  for  the 
meal,  Anna  being  occupied  in  looking 
over  Murray's  Handbook,  seeking  to 
discover  whether  it  was  worth  while  to 
carry  out  an  expedition  they  had  pro 
jected  to  the  top  of  Monte  Monterone, 
in  full  view  from  where  she  now  sat. 
Pietro,  the  postboy,  meanwhile  unhitched 
the  traces  of  his  horses  and  led  them  a 
little  distance  up  the  road,  there  to  rest 
and  feed.  While  he  was  busy  attaching 
a  nosebag  containing  barley  to  the  head 
of  the  horse  he  had  ridden,  several 
dragon-flies  darted,  with  the  wonderful 
power  of  flight  which  characterizes  these 
insects,  right  across  the  road  to  where 
the  animals  stood.  One  buzzed  between 
their  legs  ;  another  fastened,  with  fero 
cious  grip,  on  the  neck  of  the  off-horse. 
Both  animals  stamped  and  snorted  in 
terror.  Pietro  succeeded,  at  consider 
able  personal  risk  to  himself,  in  master 
ing  the  one  he  held  ;  but  the  other  stal 
lion,  a  powerful  brute,  maddened  by  the 
sharp  sting,  broke  away  and  dashed 
down  the  road. 

It  was  Lela  who  first  noticed  the  ter 
ror  of  the  horses.  She  set  out  to  cross 


BEYOND    THE   BREAKERS. 


39 


the  road,  but  seeing  one  of  the  frantic 
animals  loose  and  plunging  toward  her, 
she  hesitated — stopped.  At  the  same 
instant  her  mother  rushed  impetuously 
to  her  assistance.  The  horse  was  gal 
loping  directly  toward  Lela  ;  but,  with 
the  instinct  which  characterizes  his  kind, 
even  in  his  headlong  speed  perceiving 
the  child,  he  swerved  to  the  right,  avoid 
ing  her.  It  was  in  the  very  moment 
when  Anna  had  bounded  forward  from 
the  other  side,  and  this  sideward  move 
ment  brought  him  directly  in  contact 
with  her.  He  struck  her  with  his  broad 
breast,  casting  her  violently  to  the 
ground  ;  then  bounded  over  her  as  she 
lay  prostrate,  not  touching  her  with  his 
hoofs. 

Susan,  almost  beside  herself  with 
terror,  hastened,  trembling,  to  her  mis 
tress'  aid.  Anna  was  insensible  ;  and 
it  was  not  until  Sydenham,  alarmed  by 
the  nurse's  shrieks,  reached  the  spot, 
that  she  was  removed  to  the  green  bank 
under  the  chestnut  tree. 


CHAPTER  VI. 
STRONGER  THAN    DEATH. 

IT  avails  nothing  that  I  attempt  to 
picture  the  husband's  wild  despair.  To 
a  brave  man — if  alone  in  this  world  and 
believing  in  another — a  summons  to  die 
is  a  thing  to  be  received  with  passionless 
equanimity :  it  is  but  as  a  requisition 
issued  to  some  sojourner  in  an  indiffer 
ent  country  to  take  up  his  residence  in 
a  better.  A  little  pain  or  trouble  in  the 
transit — soon-  over — that  is  all. 

It  is  when  he  strikes  us  through 
others  that  Death  thrusts  home  his  dart. 
He  is  victor,  not  when  he  takes  us  hence, 
but  when  he  wrests  from  us  the  life  of 
our  life,  and  leaves  us  here  exanimate 
save  only  in  the  faculty  of  suffering. 

Then  holds  the  King  of  Terrors  his 
carnival  of  triumph.  Perhaps  a  brief 
triumph  only.  For  the  good  and  the 
wise  there  is  ever,  after  a  time,  an  exit 
from  this  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death. 
After  a  time,  not  in  the  freshness  of 
grief:  not  a  gleam,  then,  indicating  the 
way  out.  When  the  fearful  blow  first 


falls,  the  victim  is  stricken  down,  help 
less,  hopeless,  prostrate,  seeing  around 
him  but  the  blackness  of  darkness,  and 
believing,  in  his  utter  abandonment,  that 
such  will  be  his  lot  for  evermore. 

So  felt  Sydenham  at  the  moment  it 
burst  upon  him  that  he  had  lost  his 
Anna.  The  sun  of  his  life  had  gone 
out.  He  groped  about  in  the  gloom, 
stunned,  as  one  suddenly  stricken  with 
blindness.  He  noticed  not  even  the 
child  of  his  love,  clinging  to  the  helpless 
form,  moaning,  "Mamma  !  mamma!" 

The  untutored  servant-girl  had  more 
self-possession  than  he.  He  sat  gazing 
on  the  inanimate  face  :  she  had  brought 
water  from  the  spring,  and  was  bathing 
her  mistress'  temples.  A  shudder  seemed 
to  pass  over  the  features.  A  sigh  !  That 
awoke  him  from  his  stupor.  "  She  lives  ! 
she  may  be  saved  !"  he  cried,  bounding 
to  his  feet.  In  another  moment  he  was 
beside  the  postboy,  who  stood  stupefied, 
the  bridle  of  the  remaining  horse  still 
over  his  arm.  "A  portantina,  Pietro  ! 
But  instantly,  instantly!  It  is  life  or 
death  !  In  an  hour  you  must  be  in 
Baveno.  Ask  what  pay  you  please. 
Do  you  hear  ?" 

"  Eccellenza,  yes,"  said  the  man,  re 
leasing  his  horse  from  its  harness  and 
tightening  the  saddle-girths.  "  In  an 
hour,  if—" 

«  No  ifs  !      In  an  hour!      Mount !" 

But  as  the  man  threw  himself  into  the 
saddle,  Sydenham  laid  his  hand  on  the 
rein:  "A  moment!  This  morning  a 
guide  offered  me  a  portantina  in  case  we 
ascended  the  Monte.  He  lives  nearly 
opposite  the  albergo.  Do  you  know 
him  ?" 

"  Eccellenza,  yes — Francesco  Ribaldi." 

"Get  it  from  him,  and  some  convey 
ance  to  bring  it  here — at  speed,  remem 
ber  !  Twelve  bearers,  so  they  can  re 
lieve  each  other.  Get  carriages  for  them 
also.  Any  price,  any  price,  so  they  are 
only  here  as  fast  as  horses  can  carry 
them  !  Away  !" 

The  man  started  at  full  gallop,  and 
Sydenham,  the  flush  of  excitement  fad 
ing  from  his  face,  retumed  to  the  fatal 
spot. 

For  the   first    hour   there    was   little 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


change — feeble  indications  of  life,  but 
apparent  insensibility.  At  last  the  eyes 
opened,  eagerly  seeking  the  loved  face  ; 
and  the  hand  which  Sydenham  had  been 
holding  in  his  feebly  returned  the  pres 
sure.  He  touched  her  wrist — the  pulse 
unnaturally  low,  as  he  made  it  out.  He 
knew  scarcely  anything  of  medicine,  but 
something  seemed  needed  to  sustain  her. 
A  few  spoonfuls  from  the  wine-flask 
revived  her  a  little. 

Gradually  she  seemed  to  return  to  life, 
speaking  but  feebly  and  at  intervals, 
however— broken  words  of  encourage 
ment  and  of  love. 

Interminable,  to  the  excited  watchers, 
seemed  the  delay  ;  yet  in  less  than  three 
hours  the  long-expected  carriages  drove 
up — their  horses  white  with  foam — bring 
ing  the  litter  and  its  bearers. 

It  was  evident  that  the  sufferer  en 
dured  acute  pain  as  they  placed  her  on 
the  portantina ;  but  the  well-trained 
bearers  kept  step  perfectly  ;  the  motion 
was  easy,  without  jar  ;  and  she  did  not 
seem  worse  on  her  arrival. 

Sydenham,  unwilling  to  trust  any  vil 
lage  doctor,  and  having  ascertained  the 
name  of  the  principal  physician  in  Milan, 
Dr.  Lo  Piccolo,  instantly  despatched  an 
express  courier  to  that  city,  with  a  letter 
to  the  doctor,  imploring  him  to  start  as 
soon  as  the  courier  arrived.  The  dis 
tance  is  forty  miles  :  the  man  promised 
it  should  be  made,  by  the  aid  of  relay 
horses,  in  two  hours  and  a  half,  and  he 
started  about  eight.  Before  four  o'clock 
next  morning  the  physician  arrived. 

Anna  had  passed  a  restless  night — 
quite  sensible,  however,  gradually  im 
proving,  and  without  fever.  She  yearned 
to  speak  to  her  husband,  but,  fearing  the 
excitement,  he  entreated  her  to  desist. 
At  her  own  earnest  request,  Lela  had 
been  laid  beside  her  for  a  while.  But 
the  poor  little  thing,  after  struggling 
bravely  with  her  emotion  till  she  could 
restrain  it  no  longer,  sobbed  so  piteously 
that  they  were  obliged  to  remove  her  to 
the  nurse's  room. 

After  a  critical  examination,  the  doc 
tor  prescribed  bleeding,  expressing  re 
gret  that  it  had  not  sooner  been  resorted 
to.  "  Her  pulse  is  feeble  at  present," 


he  said  as  he  passed,  with  Sydenham, 
into  the  adjoining  room,  where  he  had 
left  his  instruments — "  slow  and  feeble  ; 
but  fever  will  supervene  in  a  few  hours 
— by  midday  certainly.  What  have  you 
given  her  ?" 

"  Only  a  little  wine  from  time  to  time  : 
it  seemed  to  revive  her." 

The  physician  shook  his  head  :  "  De 
pletion,  not  stimulant,  is  the  remedy  at 
this  stage.  I  do  not  think  any  bones 
are  broken,  but  there  are  internal  in 
juries,  it  is  impossible  to  say  of  what 
organs,  or  determine  how  serious  the 
lesion  is.  Blood  must  be  let  to  arrest 
congestion  of  the  injured  parts." 

The  terrible  question  rose  to  Syden- 
ham's  lips.  He  became  so  pale  that  the 
experienced  eye  of  the  medical  man  de 
tected  his  secret  at  once.  "  The  shock 
to  the  system,"  he  said,  replying  as  if  the 
other  had  spoken,  " has  been  very  se 
vere,  nor  is  it  possible,  as  yet,  to  predict 
the  issue.  With  these,"  taking  up  the 
lancets,  "we  combat  the  febrile  symp 
toms.  The  signora  appe?rs  to  have  an 
excellent  constitution.  Let  us  hope  that 
we  may  be  able  to  save  her." 

I  have  often  wondered  whether — with 
case  succeeding  case  to  disperse  and 
distract  attention — the  physician  con 
tinues  to  realize  the  despotic  power  over 
the  heart  often  exercised  by  his  lightest 
words.  "  Let  us  hope  "  had  been  this 
man's  expression,  but  uttered  in  a  tone 
such  that  he  might  almost  as  well  have 
said,  "  Let  us  despair." 

The  patient  was  bled,  and  the  doctor 
departed,  promising  to  return  next  day, 
and  enjoining,  meanwhile,  absolute  quiet. 
"All  exciting  conversation,"  he  said, 
«  must  especially  be  avoided."  He  left 
an  anodyne  to  be  given  in  the  evening. 

The  prediction  in  regard  to  fever  was 
verified.  It  set  in  about  eleven  o'clock 
in  the  forenoon,  yet  it  was  not  so  violent 
as  to  be  alarming,  nor  did  it,  at  any  time, 
seem  to  affect  the  mind.  Anna  was,  in 
deed,  very  restless  :  she  experienced  a 
settled  pain  on  the  left  side,  where, 
probably,  the  horse's  shoulder  had  struck 
her,  and  she  suffered  much  because  of 
the  frequent  change  of  position  which 
her  restlessness  required.  But  she  bore 


BETOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


it  all  with  wonderful  equanimity,  and  the 
few  words  they  would  permit  her  to  say 
were  calm,  considerate  and  like  herself. 

So  passed  that  day  and  the  next  night. 
When  the  physician  called  on  the  ensu 
ing  morning,  he  bled  her  a  second  time, 
and  ordered  leeches  to  be  applied  to  the 
chief  seat  of  the  pain — that  dull,  wear 
ing  pain,  still  unabated.  It  would  be 
impossible  for  him,  he  said,  to  call  next 
day,  nor  was  u  essential.  "  It  might 
not  be  prudent  further  to  deplete  the 
system,"  he  said  to  Sydenham  :  "  the 
fever  gives  artificial  strength  for  the 
time  ;  but  to-morrow,  or  at  latest  next 
day,  there  will  be  depression  :  then  we 
must  fortify  with  stimulants.  Watch 
the  pulse  and  do  not  omit  this.  Art 
can  do  no  more.  Rest  assured  that  all 
her  resources  have  been  called  forth, 
and  not,  I  trust,  in  vain." 

But  a  straw  to  grasp  at  ;  yet  Syden 
ham,  sanguine  and  hopeful  by  nature, 
clung  to  it.  » Men  are  prone,"  he 
thought,  «  to  exaggerate  difficulties,  even 
when,  confident  that  they  can  overcome 
them.  He  may  speak  guardedly,  so  as 
to  enhance  the  merit  that  will  be  due  to 
him  for  success.  Ah,  how  little  needed ! 
If  he  could  but  imagine  what  he  will  be 
to  me  if  he  save  her  life  !" 

Another  day,  with  little  change.  To 
ward  evening  she  said  to  her  husband, 
who  had  scarcely  quitted  her  room  since 
she  lay  there,  "Frank  darling,  you  never 
in  all  your  life  refused  to  gratify  a  wish 
of  mine  ;  and  you  will  not  do  so  now,  I 
think.  Will  you  ?" 

Utterly  unable  to  answer  her,  except 
by  pressing  the  hand  he  held. 

"  Two  days  and  two  nights  you  have 
been  beside  me,  almost  without  stirring. 
See  what  a  glorious  sunset !  You  must 
go  out  for  an  hour — nay,  only  for  a  single 
hour." 

He  moved  impatiently,  as  in  dissent. 
An  expression  of  suffering  came  over 
her  face. 

"You  don't  want  to  pain  me,  Frank?" 
Then,  with  a  faint  smile  ;  "  Besides,  I 
shall  have  company.  I  want  Lela  this 
evening.  She  shall  not  see  that  I  suffer: 
I  shall  forget  that  I  do  when  I  know  you 
are  out  in  the  fresh  air.  The  child — 


little  darling! — has  already  learned  to 
control  herself.  She  will  be  quiet. 
Nurse  shall  take  her  away,  else." 

Sydenham  was  like  one  condemned  to 
a  dreary  task.  He  took  his  hat,  then  re 
turned  to  the  bedside,  gazed,  through  his 
tears,  at  the  sweet  face,  but  without  a 
word. 

"  A  full  hour,  Frank — for  my  sake  !" 

He  imprinted  a  kiss  on  her  pale  brow 
and  was  gone. 

Just  one  hour  after,  to  the  minute,  he 
re-entered  the  room.  His  wife  was  more 
quiet  than  he  had  seen  her  since  the 
accident.  "  I  am  proud  of  my  little 
daughter,"  she  said,  drawing  the  child  to 
her  for  a  kiss.  «  She  has  been  such  a 
comfort  to  me  !" 

"  I've  been  taking  care  of  mamma  all 
alone,"  said  the  child,  triumphantly.  Then 
a  shade  came  over  the  little  thoughtful 
face.  "  I  can't  make  mamma  not  have 
pain,  but  she  says  it  does  her  good  when 
I  talk  to  her.  Doesn't  it,  mamma  dear  ?" 

"  Ever  so  much  good,  my  child." 

Then  Leoline  relapsed  into  a  very 
grave,  sad  mood — quite  quiet,  however  ; 
no  sobs,  no  tears.  What  seemed  to  the 
father  a  sort  of  childish  dignity  now  and 
then  lit  up  her  face.  Were  new  thoughts, 
that  had  never  been  there  before,  busy 
in  that  little  brain  ?  Sydenham  wondered 
what  mother  and  child  had  been  saying 
to  each  other. 

During  the  night  Anna  slept  a  little : 
at  least  she  lay,  for  an  hour  and  a  half, 
her  eyes  closed,  her  face  placid,  without 
a  symptom  of  restlessness,  quiet  as  an 
infant  asleep.  When  she  awoke  the  pain 
in  her  side  had  much  diminished.  Syd 
enham  accepted  all  this  as  a  good  augury. 
Toward  morning,  however,  the  pulse  had 
evidently  become  feebler.  Lo  Piccolo's 
instructions  in  such  a  case  were  strictly 
obeyed.  Diffusible  stimulants  were 
freely  given,  and  in  the  forenoon  the 
patient  rallied. 

About  midday  she  said  : 

«  Frank,  my  husband,  it  did  me  good 
that  you  left  me  alone  last  evening,  with 
Lela.  Now  you  must  let  me  have  my 
own  way  once  more." 

«  Well,  dear  one  ?" 

"  I  don't  want  you   to  leave  me,  this 


BETOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


42 

time,  but  to  stay  and  to  let  us  have  a 
talk  together.  I  have  things  on  my 
mind—" 

«  But  Dr.  Lo  Piccolo  said—" 
« Yes,  dear,  I  know ;  but  there  are 
matters  as  to  which  he  cannot  judge. 
He  wishes  me  to  be  free  from  excite 
ment.  I  shall  not  be  so  until  I  have 
spoken  frankly  to  you." 

"To-morrow  or  next  day,  perhaps, 
Anna — when  you  are  stronger." 

She  hesitated:  "Part,  at  least,  of 
what  I  have  to  tell  you  ought  to  be  said 
to-day — now.  You  yourself  will  think 
so  when  you  shall  have  heard  it.  I 
entreat  you  by  our  love." 

« My  own  darling !  Not  another 
word  !  You  were  always  wiser  than  I, 
especially  when  moved  by  impulse  so 
strong  as  this.  It  shall  be  as  you  say." 
"  Thank  you  !"  extending  her  arms  to 
him.  Sydenham  kissed  her  fervently. 
She  lay  quiet  for  a  little  while.  Then, 
in  a  low  voice  : 

«  I  have  been  thinking  of  the  life  we 
have  spent  together.     Eight  years— yes, 
day  after  to-morrow  :   did  that  occur  to 
you,  Frank  dear  ?— eight  years  since  you 
gave  me   your  name  ;  nearly  two  years 
more  since    I  first  knew  you  !      Do  you 
know  what  you  have  been  to  me  all  these 
years  ?     Do  you  know  what  the  summer 
rain  is  to   the  parched   soil  ?— what  the 
sun  is  to  the  flowers  ?     I  wish  you  could 
feel,  just  as  I  do  this  day,  how  happy — 
how  happy  I    have   been  !     Ten  years  ! 
and,  except  those  few  dark  weeks  when 
we  watched  by  my  dear  mother's  bed 
side  and  saw  her  pass  away,  not  a  cloud ! 
I  wonder  if  you  know  how  happy  you 
have  made   me — hour  by  hour,  day  by 
day.      I  had  a  glad  thought  always  near 
me.      It  went   to   sleep  on   my  breast  at 
night ;  and  in  the  morning,  through  my 
first  waking  consciousness,  it  whispered 
to    me     that    you     were     there.      Ever 
throughout    the   clay,  in    the    midst    of 
other  thoughts,  there  hovered  about  me 
a  sense  as  of  some  good  news— a  feel 
ing  that  I  had  something  to  rejoice  at— 
vague — as  it  were  veiled — while  my  mine 
was  occupied  with   daily  duties,  but   in 
the  intervals  of  these   coming  over  un 
like  a  bit  of  sunshine  through  an  open 


ng  in  fleecy  clouds.  At  night  again — 
he  last  thing — it  was  a  sweet  sense  of 
irotection  and  of  peace.  That  golden 
bought,  running  through  the  whole 
enor  of  my  life — embellishing,  enriching 
—ah,  friend,  lover,  husband  ;  you  must 
always  remember,  come  what  will,  that 
t  was  the  consciousness  of  your  pres 
ence,  of  your  love,  of  your  ceaseless, 
priceless  care.  Whatever  happens,  pro 
mise  me— for  my  sake— for  my  sake,  my 
own  beloved — promise  me  that  you  will 
never  forget  this  !" 

Sydenham  tried  in  vain  to  control  his 
emotion.  "Anna,  Anna,"  he  cried, 
.'why  do  you  say  this  to  me— why  now? 
You  are  better,  quieter,  the  fever  is 
abating — " 

"If  I  could  spare  you  this  blow — if 
I  could  !  But,  whether  I  am  here  be 
side  you,  or  whether  I  am  waiting  for 
you—"  She  hesitated  ;  then,  in  a  lower 
voice — awaiting  for  you  where  separa 
tions  are  not— it  ought  to  gladden  your 
life  that  you  have  procured  such  a  life 
of  gladness  for  me.  A  life,  Frank  !— a 
whole  life  !  More  than  the  happiness 
of  a  lifetime  was  crowded  into  these 
years.  How  often,  as  they  passed,  has 
my  heart  cried  out,  'What  am  I,  that 
my  cup  should  have  been  filled  to  over 
flowing  ?' " 

The  husband  was  utterly  unmanned. 
He  felt  what  her  premonitions  were. 
They  might  bring  about  their  own  fulfill 
ment  !  "  I  beseech  you,"  he  cried,  "by 
the  love  that  has  been  more  to  me  than 
life— I  beseech  you,  cast  from  you  these 
terrible  thoughts.  You  must  not  leave 
me,  Anna— you  must  not  !" 

"Would  I  go  if  I  might  stay  with 
you— and  Lela  ?"  The  voice  was  calm, 
instinct  with  speechless  affection,  but 
calm,  with  scarcely  a  tremble  in  its  tones  : 
the  bitterness  of  death  was  past.  "  I 
have  been  thinking  over  it,  lying  here  : 
it  is  not  terrible,  but  I  must  tell  you 
just  the  truth.  That  wine  you  gave  me 
when  my  senses  returned,  and  through 
the  first  night,  did  me  so  much  good, 
Frank.  I  thought  then  I  might  recover. 
I  dare  say  Dr.  Lo  Piccolo  is  a  skillful 
man,  and  I  have  always  heard  that  in 
case  of  an  accident  like  mine  one  ought 


BETOND    THE   BREAKERS. 


43 


to  be  bled.  But  when  he  bled  me  the 
first  day  my  life  seemed  to  go  out  with 
the  red  stream  ;  there  was — oh,  such  a 
sinking  of  heart  and  spirit  !  When  the 
fever  came  I  felt  a  little  stronger ;  but 
after  the  second  bleeding  I  knew — I  felt 
— you  must  not  weep,  Frank  darling ; 
this  is  a  world  where  Death  must  be — 
where  all  we  love  lives  but  by  his  for 
bearance.  If  you  had  gone  first — you 
must  remember  this  that  I  am  going  to 
tell  you,  Frank,  and  you  must  forget 
that  evening  of  my  weakness  and  my 
forebodings,  and  that  prayer  of  Tekla's 
— yes,  if  you  had  gone  first,  I  should 
have  waited  patiently :  I  should  have 
lived  for  our  little  Lela — and  so  must 
you  !" 

The  strong  man  shook  like  a  child. 
«  My  burden  is  greater  than  I  can  bear." 
That  was  his  one  feeling  for  the  moment. 
But  he  was  awakened  to  a  sense  of  its 
selfishness  by  the  increasing  helplessness 
of  the  sufferer.  The  effort  seemed  to 
have  quite  exhausted  her.  Even  the 
hectic  flush  was  fading.  He  adminis 
tered  a  stimulant. 

That  revived  her  for  the  moment. 
Alas  !  for  the  moment  only !  Each  time 
that  the  remedy  was  resorted  to  the 
effect  was  feebler  and  more  brief.  There 
was,  indeed,  much  less  pain,  but  the 
pulse  indicated  a  sinking  condition  of 
the  system.  Was  her  instinct  in  regard 
to  the  blood-letting  correct  ?  Had  it 
drained  the  vital  energies  ?  At  all  events, 
relief  from  pain  and  fever  had  come  too 
late — had  come  when  there  was  no  longer 
force  to  rally.  Even  to  Sydenham,  hop 
ing  against  conviction,  this  became  ap 
parent.  Yet  she  continued  to  speak  to 
him  from  time  to  time. 

How  often,  in  after  years,  did  the 
husband  call  to  mind  the  beautiful 
thoughtfulness  for  himself  and  for  others 
evinced  by  his  dying  wife  !  She  seemed, 
especially,  to  have  considered  every 
minute  detail  connected  with  the  welfare 
of  her  child — its  culture,  physical,  men 
tal,  spiritual.  Never  had  her  mind 
seemed  more  clear.  «  Do  not  fear 
to  bring  her  up  in  the  country,"  she 
said  :  "  simple  goodness  is  better  than 
brilliant  accomplishment.  And  you 


have  duties  in  the  country,  Frank.  I 
have  been  thinking  of  that  large  Chis- 
kauga  property  of  yours.  You  told  me 
there  is  a  village  there.  How  much 
you  might  do  for  these  people  !  I  think 
you  neglected  them  for  me  :  that  thought 
came  to  me  last  night.  It  came  to  me 
from — "  She  seemed  in  doubt  whether 
to  proceed,  adding  after  a  pause  :  "  Do 
you  remember  a  text  about  dreams, 
Frank  ?" 

"  When  you  are  better,  dearest,  we 
will  talk  of  it :  do  not  trouble  yourself 
about  such  things  now." 

«  Trouble  !"  The  old  fire  lighted  up 
the  beautiful  eyes  once  more.  «  Trou 
ble  !  Ah,  the  brightness,  the  unspeak 
able  beauty  !"  Then  in  a  lower  voice  : 
"  I  saw  mother  there.  Nay  !"  as  she 
noted  her  husband's  startled,  uneasy 
look — « touch  my  pulse  :  see  if  I  am 
not  calm,  quiet.  In  my  dream  mother 
said  :  <  You  are  coming  to  me  ;'  and  her 
eyes  seemed  to  say :  <  We  shall  be  so 
happy !'  Then  I  got  the  impression, 
though  I  don't  remember  the  words, 
that  she  told  me  not  to  be  sorry  for  you, 
for  you  would  do  so  much  good  after  I 
was  gone.  I  try  to  do  as  she  bade  me  ; 
but  if  you  busy  yourself  about  thinking 
and  caring  for  others,  who  is  to  think 
and  to  care  for  you  ?  If  dear  Lela  were 
only  older !  She  will  be  such  a  comfort 
to  you,  some  day." 

"  Oh,  Anna,  I  cannot  bear  to  hear 
you  talk  thus,  as  if  it  were  all  irrevoca 
bly  fixed  ;  and  it  was  but  a  dream." 

«  My  poor  Frank  !  If  you  could  but 
have  been  with  me  in  that  glorious 
dream  !  Think !  I  shall  have  every 
thing  there  but  you.  And  after  a  little 
while — a  little  while,  dear — when  your 
task  is  ended — then  you,  too,  will  find 
out  that  as  we  approach  the  Eternal 
Stream  flowing  between  us  and  the  sum 
mer-land,  soft  airs  are  wafted  over  to  us, 
and  sweet  voices  come  to  us  from  the 
other  shore.  Oh,  Frank,  try  to  be 
happy  till  then.  One  of  us  had  to  go 
first,  darling.  Do  you  grudge  it  to 
me  ?" 

Thus,  with  her  loving  words  and 
her  sweet  faith,  that  brave  soul  sought, 
even  to  the  end,  to  wean  the  mourner, 


44 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


about  to  be  left  on  the  hither  shore,  from 
the  indulgence  of  his  grief.  And  not  in 
vain  was  this  last  labor  of  love.  Even 
in  those  supreme  moments  he  came  to 
think  of  her  not  as  lost,  but  as  going 
home  the  first  :  he  came  to  realize  that 
though,  for  both,  there  was  a  terrible 
parting  here,  for  her  there  was  a  joyful 
greeting  beyond.  And  in  long  after 
years  she,  being  dead,  yet  spake.  The 
balm  of  her  parting  words  brought  com 
fort  and  calm  to  many  a  lonely  hour. 

Toward  midnight  she  became  very 
feeble,  having  scarcely  strength  to  ask 
that  she  might  be  moved  before  the  win 
dow  that  opened  on  the  lake.  The  same 
brilliant  moon,  the  same  track  of  radiance 
over  the  dark-blue  mirror,  as  on  the 
night  of  Anna's  presentiments.  She 
gazed  dreamily  on  the  calm  effulgence  of 
the  scene,  and,  pointing  to  the  streak  of 
light,  "  It  is  not  brighter,"  she  said 
faintly  to  Sydenham,  "than  the  path  be 
fore  me."  Then  gradually  she  sank  into 
a  stupor.  Half  an  hour  after  she  seemed 
to  awake  for  a  moment,  with  just  strength 
to  draw  her  husband  to  her  arms  and  to 
whisper,  "Not  for  long,  dear  love — not 
for  long  !"  Her  last  words  of  comfort 
to  him  who  had  made  the  happiness  of 
her  life. 

The  trance-like  condition  into  which 
she  immediately  relapsed  continued  until 
that  earliest  hour  of  the  morning  when 
so  many  have  passed  away.  Then  she 
stirred  a  little,  her  lips  moved,  but  she 
recognized  no  one.  After  a  time  a  sera 
phic  expression  lit  up  her  features. 
What  she  saw,  what  she  felt,  we  can 
never  know.  Except  on  the  brink  of 
the  Dark  River  eye  hath  not  seen  it  nor 
ear  heard.  She  threw  up  her  arms  as 
in  welcome.  "  Mother  !  mother  !"  she 
cried,  in  tones  of  tender  exultation 
Then  the  arms  sank  slowly,  crossing 
themselves  on  the  breast.  The  look  of 
ecstasy  faded  into  one  mingled  of  calm 
joy  and  holy  affection,  and  of  peace 
passing  all  understanding.  And  tha 
ineffable  expression — earnest  of  another 
world— lingered  there  long  after  the  glad 
spirit,  freed  from  earthly  surroundings 
had  passed  to  better  regions,  there  to 
take  up  its  eternal  abode. 


A  little  way  up  the  Monte  Monterone, 
n  a  small,  picturesque,  secluded  plateau 
verlooking   the   placid    lake  —  vineyard 
and   olive   grove   around — there   stands, 
nscribed  with  the  single  word  ANNA,  a 
imple  monument  of   purest  white  mar- 
ile.    Never  was  earthly  minister  of  good 
ness  and  beauty  laid  to  rest  in  a  lovelier 
pot. 


CHAPTER  VII. 
FROM   BAVENO  TO  CHISKAUGA. 

One  of  Anna's  last  requests  to  Syd 
enham  was  that  he  should  spend  some 
time  in  passing  through  Italy  with  Leo- 
ine.  She  foresaw  the  dreary  void,  to 
fill  which,  at  first,  change  of  scene  and 
the  healthy  excitements  of  travel  are 
among  the  best  appliances  ;  but  all  she 
had  said  to  him  was,  "  It  is  my  mother's 
country,  and  I  should  like  my  child  to 
see  it." 

For  most  children  of  Leoline's  age 
the  impressions  thus  received  would  have 
been  evanescent,  but  in  her  case  many 
of  them  were  never  effaced.  She  was 
not  as  far  advanced  as  girls  of  seven 
often  are  in  the  usual  branches  of  edu 
cation.  Her  parents,  noting  her  quick 
ness  and  eagerness  to  learn,  had  deemed 
it  wise  to  restrain  rather  than  stimulate 
her  ambition.  But  her  mental  faculties 
and  her  powers  of  observation  were  of 
no  common  order,  and  her  exuberant 
spirits  were  shaded  at  times  by  a  dash 
of  thought  fulness  rare  in  one  so  young. 
This  last  had  been  increased  by  her 
mother's  death  and  the  incidents  there 
with  connected. 

It  was  touching,  even  if  it  sometimes 
called  forth  a  smile,  to  witness  the  sort 
of  charge  the  little  thing  now  took  of 
her  father,  anticipating  his  wants  and 
seeking  to  allay  the  impatience  of  his 
first  grief.  The  day  before  they  left 
Baveno  he  had  shut  himself  up  in  his 
room,  abandoned  to  thoughts  of  the 
heart-solitude  that  lay  before  him.  She 
stole  quietly  in,  sat  down  beside  him 
without  a  word,  and  slid  her  hand  into 
his.  At  first  he  scarcely  noticed  her, 
but,  as  she  looked  up  with  mute  sym- 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


45 


pathy  in  her  face,  he  took  her  on  his 
knee  and  kissed  her  in  a  passionate 
burst  of  grief.  She  wiped  his  eyes  with 
her  handkerchief,  and  then  startled  him 
by  saying, 

"  Dorio'  you  cry,  papa  dear.  It  will 
make  mamma  so  sorry  !" 

« Your  mamma,  my  child  ?  She  is 
gone — •" 

"  Yes,  I  know  she  is  not  here.  She 
is  up  among  the  angels.  She  told  me 
she  was  going  there,  to  see  grandmam 
ma  ;  and  she  said  I  mustn't  cry  after  she 
was  gone,  because  that  would  make  her 
sorry,  up  there,  in  heaven." 

Sydenham  called  to  mind  that  hour 
which  the  dying  mother  had  spent  alone 
with  her  child.  Lela's  simple  words 
strangely  affected  him. 

«  I'm  going  to  see  her,  some  day, 
myself,"  she  pursued,  a  sweet  gravity  on 
the  young  face.  "  Mamma  promised  if 
I  was  good  and  took  care  of  you,  and 
tried  to  make  you  not  sorry,  that  when  I 
was  bigger  I  should  come  and  be  with 
her  and  grandmamma  :  and  after  that 
she  would  never  go  away  and  leave  us 
any  more." 

And  then  she  startled  him  again  with 
the  sudden  question  :  «  Papa,  don't  you 
think  mamma  sees  us  ?" 

While  Sydenham  hesitated  for  an 
answer,  the  child  added  : 

«  Because,  if  she  can't  see  us  from  up 
there,  how  would  she  know  whether  I 
cried  or  not.  Don't  the  angels  see  us 
and  take  care  of  us,  papa  ?" 

How  these  little  creatures  with  their 
daring  questions  sometimes  stir  up 
problems  that  the  wisest  among  us  may 
fail  to  solve  !  And  yet  we  talk  to  them 
so  heedlessly,  and  often  say  in  their 
hearing  what  we  little  think  they  are 
noting  and  treasuring  up  for  future 
thought. 

Sydenham's  nature  was  essentially 
spiritual :  Spurzheim  would  have  as 
cribed  to  him  a  large  organ  of  venera 
tion  ;  but  his  religion  had  so  far  been 
rather  a  feeling  than  a  system,  and  he 
had  given  little  attention  to  doctrinal 
points.  Lela's  questions  took  him  en 
tirely  by  surprise.  He  had  a  vague  re 
collection  of  certain  texts  about  minister 


ing  spirits  sent  forth  to  attend  on  the 
good,  and  about  taking  heed  not  to  de 
spise  these  little  ones,  seeing  that  their 
angels  always  behold  God's  face.  But 
he  merely  said,  « We  shall  know  more 
about  these  things  by  and  by,  dear  child. 
Of  this  we  are  sure,  that  your  ihamma 
is  happy." 

"  Then  don't  let  us  be  sorry,  papa 
darling.  Mamma  wouldn't  be  sorry  if 
she  knew  we  were  happy,  would  she  ?" 

Anna's  influence  was  reaching  her 
husband  already  for  good.  The  ideas 
which  Lela,  in  her  unconscious  sim 
plicity,  had  aroused  within  him  tended 
to  soothing  and  tranquillity. 

At  Milan,  one  day,  as  they  returned 
from  visiting  that  elaborate  wonder,  the 
cathedral,  Sydenham  received  a  letter, 
which,  by  calling  up  old  associations  and 
bringing  before  his  mind  the  needs  and 
the  griefs  of  others,  had  an  effect  whole 
somely  distractive.  It  was  dated  from 
Chiskauga,  and  was  from  an  old  and 
very  dear  friend,  Eliza  Pembroke,  say 
ing  that  her  husband  had  died  suddenly, 
six  months  before  ;  that,  feeling  her  own 
death  to  be  approaching,  she  had  very 
anxious  thoughts  about  her  only  remain 
ing  child,  Celia,  then  ten  years  old  ;  and 
that  her  sister  Alice  Hartland,  wife  of  a 
gentleman  who  had  settled  at  Chiskauga, 
had  strongly  advised  her  to  write  to  him. 
"  You  were  always  a  favorite  of  hers," 
the  letter  continued.  « She  and  I  re 
member  so  well  the  happy  years  of  child 
hood  we  spent  with  you.  Do  you  still 
recall  our  going  to  school  together — 
how  you  used  to  aid  us  in  our  tasks — 
how  you  used  to  join  in  the  quiet  sports 
which  were  all  that  the  strict  discipline 
of  Friends  approved  or  permitted  ? 

"To  you,  the  friend  and  companion 
of  those  peaceful  days,  I  now  come  for 
counsel,  and  —  in  case  my  Celia,  left 
an  orphan,  should  ever  find  herself  in 
trouble — for  aid  and  kindness  to  her  ; 
and  I  am  sure  that  my  appeal  will  not 
be  in  vain. 

"  The  report  is — how  true  I  know  not 
— that  after  a  few  years  you  may  settle 
in  Chiskauga.  At  all  events,  some  day 
or  other  your  large  possessions  here  will 
probably  attract  you  to  the  place.  But 


46 


BEYOND    THE   BREAKERS. 


in  case  of  my  death,  I  expect  to  leave 
my  daughter  here.  I  have,  as  you  know, 
no  brother,  nor  any  sister  except  Alice. 
Her  husband,  Thomas  Hartland,  seems 
Celia's  natural  guardian,  and  her  aunt's 
house  her  natural  home.  I  know  you 
will  like  my  girl  :  a  better  or  warmer- 
hearted  child  cannot  be  found.  She  has 
never  given  me  an  hour's  uneasiness  in 
her  life.  Hartland  is  an  estimable  cha 
racter,  to  whom  I  can  confidently  en 
trust  my  daughter's  property  ;  but  he 
is  cold  and  impassive,  and  there  will  be 
little  sympathy,  I  fear,  between  the  uncle 
and  niece.  On  the  other  hand,  Alice 
will  be  a  mother  to  my  child.  And  there 
is  another  reason  why  I  select  Hartland 
as  a  guardian,  and  why  I  invoke  your 
aid  in  case  Celia  should  need  it. 

"  There  is  a  certain  lawyer,  named 
Amos  Cranstoun,  living  here — a  man,  I 
think,  without  principle,  whom  I  fear  and 
dislike.  He  wormed  himself,  I  know  not 
how,  into  my  husband's  confidence,  and 
even  on  his  death-bed  Frederick  con 
jured  me  to  do  nothing  to  irritate  or 
offend  him.  He  has  been  studiously  at 
tentive  to  us  since  my  husband's  death, 
offering  to  attend,  without  charge,  to  any 
business  of  mine  ;  and  I  know  no  reason 
whv  I  should  imagine  that  he  might  in 
jure  us  ;  yet  I  do.  A  woman's  logic, 
you  will  say.  But  Mr.  Hartland  seems 
to  share  my  distrust,  and  I  believe  it 
was  that  which  finally  decided  me  to 
leave  Celia  in  his  care." 

To  this  letter  Sydenham  immediately 
replied,  pledging  himself  in  the  strong 
est  terms  to  carry  out  Mrs.  Pembroke's 
wishes. 

They  spent  the  winter  in  Italy,  chiefly 
in  Rome  ('where  Sydenham  met  many 
of  his  wife's  relatives,  enthusiastic  Car 
bonari — radical  in  their  ideas  of  reform) 
and  in  Naples,  where,  through  letters 
given  him  by  the  Gherardi  family,  he 
made  the  acquaintance  of  several  dis 
tinguished  reformers  of  the  same  stamp. 
A  nearer  acquaintance  with  these 
Italian  radicals  somewhat  weakened 
Sydenham's  faith  in  their  anticipations 
of  prompt  success.  They  were  of  a 
generous  spirit,  impulsive,  enthusiastic 
and  had  much  of  what  the  French  term 


elan — the  dashing  ardor  of  the  South  ; 
but  they  seemed  to  him  to  lack  practi 
cal  qualities — prudence,  steadiness  of 
thought  and  of  purpose,  power  of  endur 
ance,  equanimity.  His  confidence  was 
especially  shaken  by  a  confession  from 
one  of  themselves,  Don  Liborio  Libetta, 
a  distinguished  Neapolitan  lawyer. 

"Signer  Sydenham,"  he  said,  "I  can 
speak  with  entire  confidence  to  you,  for 
you  are  Anglo-Saxon,  and  that  is  a  re 
liable  race.  We  live  here  under  one  of 
the  worst  governments  in  the  world. 
There  is  no  security,  for  a  single  day,  to 
person  or  property.  As  regards  persons 
of  any  rank  or  influence  among  us,  the 
estimable,  the  intelligent,  the  industrious 
are  considered  dangerous  characters,  and 
are  placed  under  a  system  of  strictest 
espionage,  dogged  even  to  the  privacy  of 
their  houses,  tracked  by  spies,  day  and 
night  ;  while  the  worthless  and  indolent, 
the  spendthrift,  the  debauchee,  are  re 
garded  as  safe  and  inoffensive  persons, 
and  are  left  at  liberty,  without  annoyance 
from  the  police." 
«  So  bad  as  that  ?" 

"  It  is  the  settled  rule  of  policy — a 
premium,  you  see,  on  vice.  The  influ 
ence  of  such  a  system  is  terribly  cor 
rupting — so  corrupting,  you  think,  per 
haps,  that  it  ought  to  fall,  in  this  nine 
teenth  century,  by  its  own  weight.  It 
has  aroused  the  indignation  of  every 
man  friendly  to  human  rights.  But, 
alas  !  we  have  no  trustworthy  bond  of 
union.  Do  you  know  why  we  do  not 
succeed  against  abuses  so  monstrous  ? 
Because  we  have  no  confidence  in  one 
another.  I  never  feel  assured  that  my 
nearest  friend  may  not  betray  me  to  death. 
The  iron,  as  one  of  your  English  writers 
expresses  it,  has  entered  into  our  souls. 
It  is  terrible  to  say,  but  we  have  no 
TRUTH  among  us." 
«  Terrible  indeed  !" 
«  And  the  result  will  be,  that  if,  one 
of  these  days,  we  do  get  the  upper 
hand,  we  shall  not  have  sufficient  faith 
in  each  other  to  retain  it." 

Three  years  afterward — during  the 
revolutionary  uprisings  of  1848 — Don 
Liborio's  words  were  verified. 

Naples,  in  its  physical  aspect,  had  a 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


47 


beneficent  effect  on  Sydenham.  What 
a  drive  was  that  he  took  with  Leoline  on 
the  far-famed  Strada  Nuova,  leading  in 
and  out  along  the  rock-bound,  vineyard- 
clad  shore  to  Baia — city  of  wonderful 
relics  !  The  atmosphere,  marvelous  in 
its  transparency,  through  which  distant 
objects  showed  preternaturally  distinct ; 
the  matchless  bay,  dotted  with  fairy  is 
lands — Capri,  Ischia,  Procida,  Nisida — 
its  waters  lying  in  dreamy,  glittering 
quiet,  sharing  (Fancy  suggested)  the  na 
tional  languor,  in  that  they  were  stirred 
not  even  by  heave  of  tide  :  then,  as  noble 
background,  a  lofty  Apennine  range,  with 
Monte  Sant'  Angelo,  cloud-capped,  for  a 
summit ;  and,  more  than  all  and  seen 
from  every  turn  of  the  road,  the  purple, 
Liva- encrusted  cone  of  Vesuvius,  awaking 
a  thousand  memories  ;  the  smoke  sul 
lenly  rising  from  its  summit,  a  reminder 
of  the  power  to  destroy  that  slumbers 
beneath.  All  this  made  up  a  combina 
tion  of  natural  beauty  so  wondrous  and 
so  varied  that  it  took  captive  the  senses 
as  by  a  spell.  Sydenham,  charmed  and 
soothed,  felt  little  inclined  to  treat  as 
hyperbole  an  encomium  which  he  called 
to  mind  by  a  native  poet,  whose  remains 
they  had  passed  during  the  morning's 
drive — Sannazzaro,  who,  in  allusion  to 
the  city  of  Parthenope  and  its  surround 
ings,  spoke  of  that  region  of  enchant 
ment,  as 

"  Un  pezzo  di  cielo,  caduto  in  terra."  * 

Nor  was  it  inanimate  beauty  on  which, 
during  their  stay  here,  the  travelers  looked. 
The  country  breathed  of  the  past.  His 
tory  was  written  all  over  it — over  its 
ruins  (once  filled  with  Roman  luxury 
and  stained  with  Roman  vice)  of  palace 
and  temple  and  bath — the  bath  rivaling 
the  temple  in  magnificence  ;  over  its 
tombs  and  its  statues  and  its  buried 
cities,  now  uncovered  to  modern  gaze  ; 
over  picturesque  Naples  itself,  with 
background  of  rock  and  precipitous 
hill,  sprinkled  with  charming  villas  and 
surmounted  by  castle  and  monastery. 

And  that  was  history,  of  which  some 
of  the  stone-leaves  date  back,  not  only 
to  the  heyday  of  Roman  splendor,  or 

*  A  bit  of  heaven,  dropped  down  upon  earth. 


even  to  the  times  when  Xerxes  led  his 
many-nationed  host,  with  Lybian  war- 
chariots  and  Arabian  camels,  against  as 
tounded  Greece,  but  to  a  period  of  which 
the  records  were  ancient  history  to 
Nero  and  to  Xerxes — to  an  epoch  be 
fore  Homer  wrote  or  Achilles  fought. 
Through  a  dark  grotto,  partially  invaded 
by  water,  Sydenham  and  Lela  were  con 
veyed,  on  the  backs  of  guides,  to  a  stone 
platform,  the  resting-place,  they  were  as 
sured,  of  the  Sybil  who  prophesied  the 
destruction  of  Troy.  The  long  record 
stretches  back  full  three  thousand  years. 

They  returned,  by  way  of  Marseilles 
and  Paris,  to  England.  After  a  brief 
stay  at  Acquabella,  Sydenham's  thoughts 
reverted  to  Chiskauga  ;  and  there  came 
to  him,  as  a  behest,  Anna's  dying  words : 
"  How  much  good  you  might  do  these 
people !  I  think  you  neglected  them 
for  me."  In  spite  of  the  entreaties  of 
Mr.  Selbourne  and  his  sons,  with  whom 
Lela  was  a  petted  favorite,  Sydenham 
embarked  for  America,  spent  some 
months,  detained  by  business,  in  Phila 
delphia,  and  then  set  out  for  the  village, 
where  he  had  determined  to  take  up  his 
permanent  abode.  He  was  accompanied 
by  a  widowed  sister,  Hannah  Clymer, 
one  of  those  charming  persons,  not  par 
ticularly  bright,  but  instinct  with  benevo 
lence,  who  "think  no  evil,"  and  see,  in 
every  character,  only  its  brightest  side. 

In  Chiskauga,  Sydenham  found  many 
changes.  Mrs.  Pembroke  had  died,  leav 
ing  her  daughter  under  Mr.  Hartland's 
guardianship.  A  French  physician,  Dr. 
Meyrac,  exile  from  his  native  country 
because  of  political  opinions,  had  settled 
in  the  place.  Another  new-comer  was 
Mrs.  Mow  bray,  an  officer's  widow  in 
limited  circumstances,  with  one  child,  a 
boy,  whom  she  greatly  indulged.  The 
business  of  the  neighborhood  was  slowly 
but  steadily  increasing.  A  flour-mill, 
recently  erected  three  or  four  miles 
west  of  the  village  on  a  rapid  stream 
called  Chewauna  Creek,  was  in  success 
ful  operation. 

He  found  also,  much  to  his  satisfac 
tion,  that  an  old  and  valued  friend,  Mr. 
Harper,  a  man  equally  benevolent,  simple- 
hearted,  learned  and  eccentric,  was  settled 


48 


BEYOND    THE   BREAKERS. 


in  the  place  as  Presbyterian  clergyman. 
One  of  Sydenham's  earliest  recollections 
of  this  guileless  enthusiast  was  the  re 
ceiving  a  visit  from  him  when  he  (Syd 
enham)  was  but  seventeen  years  of  age. 

"  My  young  friend,"  said  the  good 
man,  "I  like  you.  You  are  earnest,  in 
dustrious,  persevering;  and  I  have  re 
marked  in  you  a  reverence  for  sacred 
things  which,  alas  !  is  rare  in  this 
thoughtless  age.  Have  you  facility  in 
learning  languages  ?" 

Sydenham  replied  that  his  teachers 
had  usually  thought  so  ;  that  it  was  a 
branch  of  study  he  had  always  liked  ; 
that  he  had  obtained  some  facility  in 
speaking  French,  and  was  now  studying 
German. 

«  Ah,  young  man,  these  are  but  pro 
fane  studies,  not  to  be  despised  in  their 
place,  yet  as  dust  in  the  balance  com 
pared  to  graver  matters.  Are  you  a 
good  Latin  and  Greek  scholar  ?" 

"Greek,  no  :  I  am  but  an  indifferent 
Hellenist ;  but  I  believe  my  knowledge 
of  Latin  is  fair." 

"  I  offer  to  you,  my  dear  young  friend, 
an  entrance  into  higher  regions.  Come 
and  study  Hebrew  with  me.  Thus  shall 
you  have  the  key  to  golden  treasures. 
The  writings  of  man  are  full  of  error 
and  uncertainty.  Come  to  me  and  we 
will  study  together  the  words  of  God, 
not  as  fallible  men  have  translated  them, 
but  pure  as  they  came  from  the  great 
original  Source.  I  do  not  ask  you  to 
come  as  a  pupil,  for  I  do  not  take  pupils, 
but  as  a  son  to  his  father.  It  shall  be 
to  me  a  labor  of  love." 

Sydenham  had  difficulty  in  parrying 
this  cordial  offer.  He  urged  his  law- 
studies,  on  which  he  had  to  depend  for 
a  livelihood,  and  the  propriety  of  first 
completing  the  branches  of  philology  he 
had  begun.  It  pained  him  to  reject  a 
proposal  so  evidently  made  in  generous 
simplicity  of  heart.  "In  after  years, 
perhaps,"  he  said,  more  in  expression 
of  gratitude,  however,  than  with  serious 
intention  of  ever  seeking  to  master  the 
Hebrew  tongue,  »  he  might  be  in  a  bet 
ter  situation  to  accept  such  kindness." 

Thirteen  years  had  elapsed  since  then, 
whitening  good  Mr.  Harper's  hair— for 


he  was  now  approaching  threescore — 
but  leaving  unchanged  his  primitive  pe 
culiarities  and  his  pure  and  simple  heart. 

On  making  acquaintance  with  Dr. 
Meyrac,  Sydenham  found  that  he,  also, 
was  an  original  in  his  way.  The  follow 
ing  anecdote  transpired  through  Madame 
Meyrac,  a  quiet,  methodical,  painstaking, 
well-dressed,  well-mannered  person,  who 
ruled  her  own  household  rigidly,  except 
that,  in  matters  of  importance,  she  was 
fain  to  let  her  spouse  have  his  own  way. 

The  doctor's  health  was  usually  good, 
but  in  case  of  casual  indisposition,  to 
which  he  was  liable,  it  was  remarked 
that  he  never  called  in  the  aid  of  an) 
of  his  brethren  of  the  profession.  About 
a  year,  however,  before  he  left  Paris  he 
was  taken  seriously  ill ;  and  madame 
proposed  to  send  for  a  doctor,  an  inti 
mate  friend  of  theirs.  To  this,  as  usual, 
he  positively  objected.  The  wife  watched 
and  nursed  her  husband  with  her  utmost 
skill,  but  the  symptoms,  fever  especially, 
remained  unabated.  One  morning,  when 
Meyrac  was  evidently  worse,  madame 
said  to  him  : 

«  My  friend,  this  will  not  do.  Your 
case  is  getting  beyond  my  experience 
and  management,  and  you  know  you 
have  often  told  me  that  a  man  who  in 
sists  on  doctoring  himself  in  a  serious 
case  has  a  fool  for  a  patient.  I  must 
send  for  our  good  Montfaucon." 

« I  thought,"  replied  the  sick  man, 
very  politely,  "to  have  already  adver 
tised  you,  my  dear,  more  than  once,  that 
I  do  not  desire  to  have  any  doctor 
attending  upon  me  ?" 

"In  an  ordinary  case,  dear  friend, 
very  well ;  and  you  will  do  me  the  justice 
to  admit  that  I  have  hitherto  always 
obeyed  your  wishes  on  this  point.  But 
the  symptoms,  this  morning,  are  very 
serious  :  I  cannot  take  the  responsibility 
of  waiting  longer.  I  must  absolutely 
send  for  Dr.  Montfaucon,  in  whom  I 
know  you  have  confidence." 

"  Before  doing  so,  dear  Elise,"  said 
her  husband  in  his  quietest  tone,  "do 
me  the  favor  to  ring  the  bell."  Madame 
obeyed  and  the  servant  appeared. 

"Jean,"  said  his  master,  "in  my  study, 
over  the  fireplace,  you  will  find  my  pis- 


BETOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


49 


tols.  Have  the  goodness  to  take  them 
down  carefully  and  bring  them  to  me. 
And — a  moment,  Jean  ;  that  is  not  all — 
in  the  left-hand  drawer  of  my  escritoire 
there  is  a  powder-flask  and  a  small 
package  of  balls.  Bring  them  also." 

"  My  God  !"  said  the  terrified  wife  in 
an  undertone,  "  his  brain  is  disturbed." 
Then  to  the  sick  man  :  "  Dear  husband, 
but  tin's  is  madness.  What  can  you 
possibly  want  with  pistols,  lying  here 
on  a  sick-bed  ?" 

"  Montfaucon  is  a  good  fellow,  and  I 
should  be  very  sorry  to  do  him  harm. 
But  if  you  really  insist  upon  sending  for 
him,  my  dear  wife,  and  if  he  enters  that 
door  to  prescribe  for  me,  I  shall  blow 
his  brains  out  :  that  is  all." 

"Just  Heavens!"  cried  Madame  Mey- 
rac,  now  thoroughly  alarmed.  « Rest 
tranquil,  my  husband :  if  you  feel  so 
strongly  opposed  to  having  medical  ad 
vice,  be  assured  I  shall  respect  your 
wishes." 

"As  you  will,  Elise  ;  but,"  turning  to 
the  servant,  "let  me  have  my  pistols, 
Jean,  at  any  rate." 

No  doctor  was  sent  for,  and  Meyrac 
slowly  recovered.  On  the  first  day  he 
was  able  to  leave  his  bed,  «  You  are  an 
admirable  sick-nurse,"  he  said  to  his 
wife,  kissing  her  on  the  forehead.  «  If 
all  men  were  as  fortunate  as  I,  my  dear 
Elise,  we  poor  blunderheads  would  make 
but  a  sorry  living." 

The  villagers  generally  were  friendly 
and  social ;  and  without  other  division 
of  class  or  caste  among  them  save  that 
which  superior  cultivation  and  informa 
tion  naturally  bring  about. 

Sydenham  resolved  to  make  his  future 
home  among  them.  In  selling  out  some 
of  his  lands  adjacent  to  Chiskauga,  he 
had  made  reservation  of  a  small  farm  of 
fifty  or  sixty  acres,  west  of  the  village  ; 
partly  valley-land,  but  chiefly  picturesque 
hills — an  old  clearing,  on  which  the  tree- 
stumps  had  already  decayed,  and  which 
ran  back  to  the  original  forest.  During 
a  former  visit  to  the  place  he  had  picked 
out  «a  piece  of  table  land,  half-way  up  the 
hills  ;  and,  intending  some  day  to  build 
there,  had  had  it  planted  out  wiih  clumps 
of  shade  trees. 
4 


Here  he  erected  a  dwelling  of  moder 
ate  size.  The  material  was  a  fine 
grained  freestone,  from  the  New  Red 
Sandstone  formation,  found  in  a  quarry 
which  Sydenham  had  discovered  on  a 
tract  of  his  forest-land  at  no  great  dis 
tance.  The  style  he  selected  was  the 
Norman,  but  in  its  later  and  lighter 
phase,  prevailing  during  the  twelfth  cen 
tury — simple  semi-circular  openings  with 
out  tracery,  but  with  labels  of  the  same 
form,  and  bold  corbel-courses  devoid  of 
the  grotesque  ornamentation  with  which 
our  ancestors  were  wont  to  disfigure 
them  ;  several  sharp-pointed  gables  ;  on 
one  side  a  slender  campanile  tower,  with 
pointed  roof  and  an  Italian  air  about  it  ; 
beneath  it  a  handsome  entrance,  en 
riched  on  the  jambs  with  a  succession 
of  small,  receding  pillars. 

The  variety  of  freestone  selected  had 
this  peculiarity,  that,  when  first  quarried, 
it  was  comparatively  soft,  working  freely 
before  the  chisel,  and  thus  was  readily 
carved  into  ornaments  ;  while  by  expo 
sure  it  gradually  indurated  almost  to  the 
hardness  of  granite.  But  Sydenham  was 
not  betrayed  by  this  facility  of  orna 
mentation  into  the  elaborate.  The  outer 
finish  was  in  rough-tooling.  A  few  grace 
ful  leaves  or  flowers  on  the  lower  points 
of  the  corbels  and  as  capitals  for  the 
dwarf  pillars  peculiar  to  this  style,  a 
circular  window  with  radiating  mullions 
in  the  principal  gable  ;  a  few  carved 
finials — that  was  nearly  all  the  architect 
ural  luxury  he  indulged  in. 

The  tint  of  the  material  accorded  well 
with  the  manner,  being  a  lilac-gray,  the 
shade  which  ladies,  in  their  dresses,  call 
ashes  of  roses.  All  this  gave  to  the 
dwelling,  at  a  distance,  a  quaint  and 
somewhat  grave  and  old-fashioned  aspect. 
Nearer,  it  had  a  look  of  substantial  grace, 
its  fine  proportions  and  beauty  of  out 
line  giving  warrant  of  a  pure  and  culti 
vated  taste. 

Nor  did  the  interior  belie  the  external 
promise.  It  had  an  air  of  welcome  about 
it.  No  gilding,  no  glitter  ;  no  buhl  nor 
ormolu  ;  no  unwieldy  tables  with  cold 
marble  tops,  irksome  to  move,  unfit  to 
write  upon;  no  huge  mirrors;  no  l<~ng, 
heavy  brocatelle  curtains  excluding  the 


BEYOND    THE   BREAKERS. 


light  of  day  ;  no  gaudy  silk  damasks  too 
fine  to  lounge  on  ;  but,  in  variety  of 
form,  easy-chairs  and  sofas  inviting  to 
rest ;  cozy  seats  in  oriel  \vindo\vs,  sug 
gestive  of  tete-a-tetes  ;  furniture  to  last 
a  lifetime — solid  oak  and  walnut  and 
rosewood  ;  in  the  heats  of  summer  cov 
ered  with  gay  chintzes  that  looked  cool 
ere  one  sat  down, — in  keeping  with  the 
India  matting  beneath  the  feet :  during 
the  chills  of  winter  with  warm  colors — 
maroons,  scarlets,  dark  crimsons  and  the 
like — imparting,  through  the  eye.  a  genial 
glow  as  one  entered  the  rooms — an  effect 
which  was  heightened  by  adoption  of  the 
European  fancy  of  portieres,  or  door 
drapery,  corresponding  in  color  to  the 
curtains  and  carpets,  these  last  bearing 
no  huge,  gorgeous,  mimic  nosegays,  but 
being  of  a  uniform  tint,  with  small  stars 
or  single  flowers  spotting  the  surface. 

For  the  rest,  the  works  of  art  adorn 
ing  the  walls  were  choice,  rather  than 
of  great  cost.  Of  statuary  there  was 
but  a  single  example  :  a  terzino  statue 
(scarcely  half  life-size),  in  faultless  white 
marble,  of  Eve.  by  Angelini  of  Naples. 
It  was  a  charming  figure,  admirable  in 
form  and  proportion,  eminently  woman 
ly,  and  with  a  certain  youthful  dignity 
about  it — a  fit  embodiment  of  the  Mother 
of  Mankind.  She  is  seated  on  a  mossy 
bank,  at  her  feet  the  roses  of  Paradise. 
By  her  side  is  the  serpent,  in  her  hand 
the  apple  ;  but  she  does  not  look  at 
either.  She  is  gazing  into  vacant  space 
— an  absent,  thoughtful  expression,  as  if 
she  were  inquiring  of  the  future  touch 
ing  the  godlike  knowledge  of  good  and 
evil.  It  seemed  as  if  one  could  inter 
pret  the  expression  and  anticipate  the 
direful  result. 

This  little  statue  was  in  the  parlor, 
set  in  a  niche  built  expressly  to  receive 
it.  and  lined  with  maroon  velvet,  against 
which  the  purity  of  the  marble  showed 
with  excellent  effect. 

Then  there  were  two  or  three  land 
scapes  by  American  artists  of  celebrity  ; 
also  a  small  Turner,  one  sea-piece  by 
Achenbach,  another  by  Isabey ;  several 
carefully-executed  copies  in  oil  of  cele 
brated  pictures  ;  and,  scattered  all  over 
the  house,  choice  engravings  executed  in 


the  first  style  of  art.  Almost  all  of  these 
last  illustrated  some  sentiment.  One 
of  them,  entitled  "The  Gentle  Warn 
ing,"  represented  a  young  girl,  in  ancient 
costume,  standing,  with  self-convicted 
air,  before  a  table  at  which  sat  an  elderly 
lady — mother  or  aunt,  one  may  suppose 
— with  a  charming  face  ;  an  open  letter 
on  the  table  before  her  to  which  she  was 
pointing,  but  raising  her  eyes,  the  while, 
to  the  face  of  the  fair  culprit  with  such 
a  look  of  love  and  gentle  sorrow  that 
one  could  almost  hear  the  mild  words  of 
tender  remonstrance  she  was  addressing 
to  her.  Another,  hanging  over  the  fire 
place  of  SydenhanrTs  study — setting  forth 
the  great  truth  that  the  poor  assist  the 
poor — was  an  engraving  by  Jonanin  of 
Dubufe's  well-known  "  Denier  de  la 
Veuve."  All  the  rooms,  by  the  way, 
had  open  fireplaces,  the  fuel  being  sup 
plied  from  the  neighboring  forest.  How 
cheerful  and  home-like  that  primitive 
wood-fire's  blaze  ! 

A  special  fancy  of  one  of  the  inmates 
gave,  in  summer  especially,  an  additional 
grace  to  this  dwelling.  Leoline's  early 
passion  for  flowers,  still  unchanged, 
showed  itself  in  the  beauty  and  variety 
of  the  flower-beds,  chiefly  cultivated  by 
her  own  hands,  from  the  spoils  of  which 
it  was  her  daily  delight  to  decorate  the 
principal  rooms.  Every  morning  (in 
winter  from  the  green-house)  there  was 
a  special  bouquet  of  the  rarest — the 
delicate  colors  daintily  selected  and  har 
monized — for  the  writing-table  in  her 
father's  study.  A  favorite  with  her,  be 
cause  of  its  odor,  was  the  mignonette  ; 
and  this,  planted  in  narrow  boxes,  she 
set  on  the  sills  outside  of  the  parlor 
windows  ;  the  summer  wind,  as  it  stirred, 
bearing  the  faint  perfume,  from  time  to 
time,  over  the  house.  One  came,  at  last, 
to  associate  flower  and  locality.  "I  was 
reminded  of  you  and  of  your  charming 
residence,"  wrote  an  English  friend  one 
day  to  Sydenham,  "by  passing,  the  other 
morning,  in  Covent  Garden,  a  flower- 
stall  fragrant  with  mignonette." 

It  was  a  pleasant  retreat  for  a  man  of 
letters,  and  now  and  then  a  select  friend. 
Two  spare  rooms  only.  In  an  Italian 
villa  on  the  Hudson,  built  with  California 


BETOND    THE   BREAKERS. 


gold,  there  are  a  dozen.  But  when  Syd. 
enham  visited  its  owner,  an  old  friend, 
and  congratulated  him  on  his  magnificent 
residence,  the  wife  said,  rather  sadly, 
« How  much  I  prefer  yours  !  If  we 
leave  these  rooms  untenanted,  it  is  like 
living  in  an  empty  barn.  If  we  fill 
them,  it  is  a  bustling  hotel,  with  guests 
that  never  pay  their  bills,  and  of  which 
I  am  landlady." 

But  Sydenhara  was  more  than  a  man 
of  letters.  It  was  as  if  he  heard  a  voice, 
silent  on  earth  except  to  him,  saying, 
"  You  neglected  these  people  for  me  : 


when  you  come  to  join  me,  bring  an  ac 
count  of  your  stewardship."  Upon  that 
unspoken  injunction  he  had  acted.  And 
so  ten  years  had  passed  since  the  sad 
events  at  Baveno. 

Our  readers  are  now  acquainted  with 
the  gentleman  whom  Miss  Celia  Pem 
broke  and  her  aunt,  Mrs.  Hartland,  set 
out  to  visit.  Are  they  content,  before 
learning  the  result  of  that  expedition,'  to 
go  back  with  us,  for  a  brief  space,  to 
Philadelphia,  and  ascertain  how  Terence 
O'Reilly  fared  during  his  prison-life? 


PART     I  I  I. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 
THE  PRISON-CELL. 

'"pERENCE  had  clung  to  the  one  idea 
JL  that  haunted  him  from  the  first :  he 
could  not  be  convicted,  because  he  had 
not  taken  the  money.  He  had  dwelt  on 
this  till  it  assumed  almost  the  charac 
ter  of  a  monomania.  It  had  sustained 
him  through  all  the  varied  excitements 
of  the  trial.  Even  the  announcement 
of  the  verdict  failed  fully  to  dispel  the 
illusion.  It  stunned  him.  He  scarcely 
took  in  its  import.  He  was  but  partially 
roused  even  when  asked  if  he  had  any 
reasons  to  give  why  judgment  should 
not  be  pronounced  against  him.  He 
gazed  vacantly  at  the  jury,  then  at  the 
judge.  And  it  was  not  until  the  latter 
added,  in  a  compassionate  tone,  "  Have 
you  nothing  to  say,  prisoner  ?"  that  he 
broke  forth  : 

"  But  I  didn't  do  it,  judge.  And  is  it 
to  prison  you're  sending  me  ?  They 
don't  send  innocent  men  to  prison.  I 
don't  care  for  the  money.  Let  the  lying 
scoundrel  have  it,  since  he  swears  it  is 
his ;  but  for  the  Lord's  sake,  judge, 
don't  be  after  sendin'  me  to  prison. 
What  will  Norah  do  ?  And  the  poor, 
helpless  childher?  Is  it  a  thief  you'd 
make  me  out  before  them  and  their 
mother  ?" 
52 


A  shriek  from  a  distant  corner  of  the 
court-room,  and  some  one  cried  out, 
»A  woman  has  fainted."  Terence  made 
a  fruitless  attempt,  arrested  by  the  officer 
in  attendance,  to  rush  from  the  dock, 
then  sunk  his  head  on  his  hands,  with  a 
desperate  effort  at  composure.  But  that 
shriek  had  stirred  the  depths  of  his  warm 
and  passionate  nature.  A  stinging  sense 
of  shame  and  pride  came  over  him — in 
vain.  His  loud  sobs,  heard  all  over  the 
court-room,  awoke  hearty  sympathy  in 
the  bystanders.  One  or  two  of  the 
jurors  repented  their  verdict. 

Nine  months'  imprisonment  was  the 
sentence.  The  seventeen  eagles  were 
paid  over  to  the  witness,  Cassiday,  and 
the  rest  returned  to  Terence,  who,  after 
brief  delay,  was  conveyed  to  Moyamen- 
sing  prison. 

The  preliminaries  which  preceded  his 
actual  incarceration  produced  a  terrible 
effect  on  the  high-spirited  young  fellow. 
First,  his  hair  was  closely  cut ;  then  he 
was  put  in  the  scales  and  his  weight 
carefully  recorded  in  a  book  kept  for  the 
purpose  ;  next  he  was  measured,  and  his 
exact  height  set  down  in  the  same 
official  record.  Then  he  was  stripped  : 
all  marks  or  scars  found  on  his  person 
were  noted  and  minutely  registered.  To 
this  was  added  his  complexion,  together 
with  the  color  of  his  hair  and  eyes,  his 


BEYOND    THE   BREAKERS. 


53 


age,  his  birth-place  (alas  !  alas  !),  the  date 
of  his  conviction,  August  24,  and  full 
particulars  of  his  offence.  Finally  his 
prison-dress  was  put  on,  and  his  prison- 
number  assigned  him — two  hundred  and 
thirty-seven. 

It  is  difficult  for  us,  in  these  compara 
tively  enlightened  times,  to  realize  what 
the  suffering  of  some  poor  wretch  con 
demned  to  the  « peine forte  et  dure  "  may 
have  been,  when  conveyed  from  the  tor 
ture-chamber  to  a  mediaeval  dungeon. 
Yet  I  doubt  if  it  much  exceeded  the  men 
tal  agony  endured  by  Terence  when 
consigned  to  the  solitary  cell  which  bore 
his  number. 

He  was  past  all  complaint  now,  or 
outward  demonstration  of  grief.  It 
seemed  to  him  as  if  he  had  been 
stripped  of  his  very  identity.  His  for 
mer  life  had  gone  out,  and,  in  its  stead, 
had  come  up  a  despised  and  to-be- 
avoided  thing — a  felon,  weighing  so 
much,  measuring  so  much,  marked  or 
scarred  so  and  so  ;  and  all  this  set  down 
as  a  man  records  the  brand  he  has  se 
lected  with  which  to  stamp  his  cattle,  so 
that  each  animal  may  be  recognized  for 
ever  as  his  own.  It  was  all  done  and 
settled.  It  could  never,  in  this  world, 
be  undone,  any  more  than  one  can 
unlive  the  day  that  is  past. 

If  he  could  only  go  to  sleep  and  wake 
no  more  !  Norah  was  far  better  without 
him.  His  children  too.  If  he  died 
now,  people  might  forget  to  cast  it  up  to 
them  that  they  had  had  a  thief  for  a 
father.  Norah  might  marry  a  decent 
man  and  change  her  name,  and  that 
would  help  to  bury  the  past.  He  hated 
his  new  self.  It  had  no  business  here. 
It  could  be  of  no  use  to  anybody.  Why 
should  he  live  ? 

Two  days  after  Terence's  incarcera 
tion,  Mr.  Kullen,  the  prison-agent,  called. 
"Anything  new?"  he  asked  the  under- 
keeper,  a  good-natured  fellow,  Walter 
Richards. 

"  Yes,  a  young  man,  nine  months  for 
theft,  who  has  not  tasted  food  or  water 
since  he  came— two  days  and  two  nights 
now.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  he  died." 

"What's  the  matter  with  him  ?" 


"  Well,  I  don't  know.  A  stout  fellow, 
too,  but  looks  as  if  he  had  lost  every 
friend  he  ever  had  in  the  world.  I 
could  get  nothing  out  of  him,  say  what 
I  would,  except  that  he  didn't  want  to 
eat  or  drink,  for  it  was  no  use.  I  wish 
you'd  see  him — two-thirty-seven." 

"  What's  his  name  ?  Has  he  a  family  ?" 

"Terence  O'Something:  Irish,  from 
Connaught,  I  think.  Married  and  two 
children.  He  needs  looking  after." 

"I'll  see  him  at  once." 

He  found  the  prisoner  seated  on  his 
pallet,  listless,  with  the  look  of  a  man 
abandoned  to  his  fate,  seeming  to  notice 
nothing,  not  even  the  arrival  of  his 
visitor.  On  a  small  table  near  by,  his  din 
ner,  untouched.  Kullen  drew  up  a  chair 
and  sat  eyeing  him  for  some  time  in 
silence  : 

"  You  have  not  eaten  anything  for  two 
days  :  that  is  very  wrong." 

The  other  just  lifted  his  eyes  to  the 
agent's  face,  but  without  a  word. 

"  You  have  no  right  to  throw  away 
your  life.  No  man  has— least  of  all  one 
who  has  a  wife  and  children." 

He  started — that  touched  him. 

"  You  don't  look  like  a  coward  ;  but 
nobody  except  a  coward  gives  up  and 
forsakes  those  that  have  a  right  to  his 
help." 

"  An'  is  it  a  thief  can  help  wife  or 
childher  ?" 

"You're  a  thief,  then  ?" 

Terence  started  up,  defiantly  ;  then 
sank  feebly  back  again  on  his  bed. 
"  Didn't  the  jury  say  I  was  ?  And  why 
shouldn't  he  ?"  as  if  speaking  to  himself. 

"  Maybe  the  jury  mistook  ?" 

It  was  the  first  drop  of  balm  to  that 
bruised  spirit.  "Are  there  people  that 
think  juries  mayhap  mistake  ?"  he  asked, 
hesitatingly. 

"  I  do.  I've  known  many  such 
cases." 

"Thin  the  Lord  above  be  blessed 
that  sint  ye  here.  It's  no  good  now, 
but  it  comes  grateful  to  a  man,  anyway." 

"  Why  is  it  no  good  now  ?" 

"I'm  no  good.  There's  only  one 
thing  I  can  do  for  Norah  and  the 
childher." 

"  What's  that  ?" 


54 


BETOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


"  To  git  out  o'  their  way.  I'm  a  dis 
grace  to  them." 

Kullen  moved  the  table,  with  the  un- 
tasted  meal,  toward  him.  Wistfully,  for 
a  moment,  the  man  eyed  the  food  :  then 
his  face  hardened.  "Ye're  losin'  yer 
time,"  he  said,  feebly :  " I  don't  want 
to  talk  about  it." 

"  Are  you  innocent  of  this  crime  ?" 

"  Where's  the  use  in  tellin'  you  ?  In 
a  day  or  two  I'll  be  afore  the  Great 
Judge.  HE  knows.  It'll  be  all  right 
then." 

"And  if  He  asks  you,  as  He  asked 
Cain  about  his  brother  Abel,  what  you've 
done  with  Norah  and  the  children,  will 
you  tell  Him  that  you  were  not  their 
keeper  ?" 

"  He  knows  better  nor  to  ax  me  that. 
He  heerd  the  jury,  and  the  judge  on  the 
bench  too,  set  me  down  for  a  thief. 
He  saw  them  men  here,  when  they  tick 
eted  me  in  their  blasted  book  for  a  jail 
bird,  and  weighed  me  and  measured  me, 
and  wrote  down  every  mole  and  freckle 
on  me  body  as  if  I'd  been  a  dumb  baste, 
only  fit  for  the  shambles.  And  He 
knows  that,  after  all  that,  I'll  niver  be 
aught  but  a  millstone  around  the  necks 
o'  Norah  and  them  babes." 

"If  you're  innocent,  Terence  —  and 
you  look  to  me  like  an  innocent  man — 
that  can  be  proved ;  and  then  they'll  take 
it  all  back :  they'll  write  down,  in  the  same 
big  book,  that  it  was  all  a  mistake,  and 
that  you  were  found  out  to  be  no  thief 
at  all ;  and  then  nobody  can  say  you 
ever  were  a  thief.  And  why  can't  you 
help  Norah  and  the  children  then  ?" 

"  I'm  not  strong  to  argufy  with  ye," 
the  poor  fellow  sighed  :  "  the  spirit's  all 
gone  out  of  me.  But  it's  not  a  bit  of 
use,  no  more  than  the  wind  that  blows. 
Ye  didn't  hear  Mister  Bagster  ?" 

"  No  :    I  wasn't  at  the  trial." 

"  Thin  it's  no  use,  I  tell  ye,  at  all,  at 
all.  If  the  angel  Gabr'el,  with  his  wings 
on,  had  come  down  and  stood  afore  that 
jury,  he  never  could  have  spoke  better, 
or  done  moie,  nor  Mister  Bagster  did. 
If  he  couldn't  get  me  out  of  it,  there 
isn't  a  livin'  soul  that  can  come  near 
it." 

"  I  have   no  doubt  he   said  all   that 


could  be  said  :  I  know  Bagster,  and 
there  is'nt  a  better  man  before  a  jury  at 
our  bar ;  but  as  for  what  he  did — how 
many  days  had  he  to  prepare  the  case  ?" 

"  Three  days  the  judge  allowed  him." 

"  Three  days  !  No  wonder  they  con 
victed  you.  Come,  Terence  :  I  dare  say 
it  will  all  come  out  right  yet.  But  you 
must  eat  that  dinner." 

"  Mister — " 

"  Kullen's  my  name." 

"Ye  mean  the  fair  thing  by  me,  Mis 
ter  Kullen  ;  and  ye're  a  good  man  to 
come  and  speak  to  a  poor  devil  as  ye've 
spoke  to  me.  But  ye  can  niver  do  but 
one  thing  for  me.  Maybe  ye'll  do  that." 

"Anything  I  can,  I'll  do." 

"  Thin  look  a  bit  to  Norah  and  them 
childher  when  I'm  gone.  But  you 
mustn't  never  let  the  lassie  know  I 
wouldn't  ate  :  let  her  think  it  was  the 
jail-sickness  that  did  it.  Tell  her  God 
knowed  she'd  be  far  better  oft"  without 
the  likes  of  me.  It  would  break  the 
dear  heart  of  her  if  she  thought  I  wanted 
to  lave  her  and  the  two  childher.  And 
God,  He  knows  I  never  did.  I'd  stay 
here  and  work  my  fingers  to  stumps, 
though  there  wasn't  a  stick  to  the  fire  or 
a  bite  to  the  table,  if  I  didn't  know  that 
the  very  scum  o'  the  street  can  throw  it 
up  to  her,  any  day,  that  she  has  a  thief 
for  a  husband.  D'ye  think  I  could 
stand  that — me,  that  loves  her  as  dearly 
this  blessed  day  as  when  the  darlin'  first 
tould  me  she'd  never  have  nobody  but 
myself  in  all  the  wide  world,  and  that 
she  didn't  care  no  more  for  that  scamp 
of  a  Rory  that  was  always  coortin' 
round  her  nor  she  did  for  the  worm  that 
crawls  ?" 

Kullen  could  not  restrain  a  smile,  but 
the  prisoner  did  not  notice  it.  Anxiety 
and  excitement,  and,  latterly,  lack  of 
food,  had  done  their  work.  He  sank  on 
the  bed,  adding,  in  a  half  whisper :  "  I 
never  could  stand  that,  and  I  won't  try." 

The  agent,  deeply  touched,  propped 
the  poor  fellow's  head  on  tho  pillow,  ar 
ranged  the  bed  comfortably,  and  then 
sat  looking  at  him,  lost  in  thought. 
"  Terence,"  he  said  at  last,  "  you're  very 
lonely  here  :  that's  not  good  for  you. 
I'm  at  leisure  this  afternoon.  I  want  to 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


55 


tell  you  a  story.     It  will  help  to  pass 
the  time." 

« It's  very  kind  o'  ye,  Mister  Kullen. 
But  it's  no  sort  o'  matter  now  about 
me." 

«  But  if  I  like  to  tell  it  to  you  ?" 

«  The  Lord  reward  ye." 

"  It's  about  Africa.  You've  heard  of 
the  slave-trade  ?" 

«  Not  much,"  said  Terence,  listlessly. 

« It's  worth  hearing  about.  It  lasted 
a  very,  very  long  time — three  hundred 
and  fifty  years.  If  you  should  ever  read 
about  it,  you'll  find  it's  a  history  of 
men  and  women  and  children  that  were 
hunted  down  by  soldiers  and  caught  and 
sold.  There  were  fifteen  millions  of 
them — nearly  half  as  many  as  there  are 
people  in  this  country — twice  as  many 
as  there  are  in  all  Ireland.  They  had 
committed  no  crime  :  nobody  pretended 
they  had.  They  were  not  tried  or  con 
victed  by  a  judge  or  a  jury,  but  they 
were  all  sent  to  prison  —  every  one  of 
that  fifteen  millions." 

Terence  looked  up,  his  attention  evi 
dently  arrested,  but  it  was  a  look  of  in 
credulity.  He  was  probably  considering 
where  prisons  could  be  found  for  fifteen 
millions  of  people.  Mr.  Kullen  resumed: 

"  Bear  in  mind  that  this  happened  all 
through  three  hundred  and  fifty  years. 
The  prisons  they  were  sent  to  were 
slave-ships,  and  the  prisoners  were  car 
ried  from  Africa  to  America.  They 
were  stowed  away  between-decks,  like 
so  many  herrings.  A  full-grown  man 
had  fifteen  inches  by  six  feet,  and  no 
more,  to  lie  upon — less  space  than  they 
allow  a  corpse  in  a  coffin.  The  men 
were  all  put  in  irons,  fastened  two  and 
two,  and  the  chains  locked  to  the  deck. 
Even  if  they  had  been  unchained,  there 
wasn't  room  to  stand  up.  On  the  aver 
age,  one  of  them  out  of  every  five  died 
on  the  passage  and  was  flung  overboard. 
If  the  voyage  was  a  stormy  one,  some 
times  one-half  died.  So  you  see  three 
millions  of  people  out  of  the  fifteen  mil 
lions  were  thrown  into  the  sea  before 
they  arrived.  Their  sufferings,  from 
sickness  and  hardship  and  from  thirst, 
were  often  so  dreadful  that  many  did  as 
you  are  doing,  Terence  —  they  refused 


to  eat,  and  then  they  were  flogged,  some 
times  to  death." 

« To  death  !"  with  a  faint  look  of 
astonishment. 

« Yes,  Terence,  to  death  :  that's  the 
way  they  treated  them  when  they  wouldn't 
eat." 

Terence  winced  a  little. 

"  When  they  arrived  in  America," 
Kullen  resumed,  "  they  were  forced  to 
work  from  sunrise  to  sunset,  for  other 
people,  instead  of  for  themselves  ;  and 
if  they  refused,  they  were  unmercifully 
beaten.  Afterward  their  children  and 
their  children's  children  were  compelled 
to  do  the  same  thing.  Yet  none  of  that 
multitude  were  sent  to  these  horrible 
prison-ships,  or  driven  by  the  lash  to 
work  for  other  people,  because  they 
were  guilty.  They  were  all  as  innocent 
as  you  are." 

The  prisoner's  sympathy  was  now 
fairly  enlisted. 

"What  I  particularly  wished  to  ex 
plain  to  you,"  pursued  Kullen,  "  was  the 
manner  in  which  they  put  a  stop  to  this 
stealing  and  imprisoning  of  people  that 
had  committed  no  offence.  Most  of 
these  prison-ships  were  owned  by  Eng 
lishmen,  and  they  took  their  prisoners 
chiefly  to  Jamaica  and  other  West  India 
islands,  where  rich  English  subjects  had 
plantations  worth  millions  and  millions 
of  dollars,  all  worked  by  these  forced 
laborers.  On  that  account  many  very 
rich  people  were  in  favor  of  continuing 
this  mode  of  getting  labor.  But  there 
were  others,  good  and  just  men,  mem 
bers  of  Parliament,  who  were  very  fine 
orators  ;  and  they  tried  to  get  a  law 
passed  to  prevent  so  great  a  wrong.  In 
defence  of  these  innocent  people  they 
made  speeches  that  were  every  bit  as 
good  as  the  speech  Mr.  Bagster  made 
when  he  was  defending  you.  But  these 
speeches  had  no  more  effect  than  Mr. 
Bagster s  had :  the  people  were  sent 
into  the  prison-ships,  all  the  same. 

"At  last  a  man  whose  name  was  Clark- 
son — Thomas  Clarkson — bethought  him 
self  that  if  the  truth  could  all  be  shown 
about  the  sufferings  of  these  poor  peo 
ple,  the  wrong  would  be  righted,  and  no 
more  of  them  would  be  chained  down, 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


under  hatches,  in  slave-ships.  He  had 
observed  that  the  surest  way  to  have 
justice  done  to  an  innocent  man  is  to 
search  out  what  really  happened  in  his 
case.  He  spent  a  number  of  years  in 
finding  witnesses  and  in  getting  the  facts 
from  them.  He  ferreted  out  the  whole 
history  of  some  of  these  prison-ships,  and 
of  all  the  cruelties  that  were  practiced 
in  them.  Sometimes  he  got  such  hor 
rible  stories  during  the  day  that  at  night 
his  brain  was  hot,  and  he  was  obliged 
to  lay  bandages  soaked  in  cold  water 
over  his  forehead  for  hours  before  he 
could  get  quiet  and  go  to  sleep.  Every 
day  he  wrote  down  all  the  bits  of  evi 
dence  he  had  collected.  Afterward  he 
classified  these  and  copied  them  out  in 
large  books,  as  a  merchant  does  his 
accounts.  He  had  a  journal,  with  a 
complete  history  of  the  different  slave- 
voyages.  Then,  in  a  great  ledger,  he 
had  a  page  for  every  prison-ship  he  had 
heard  about,  and  short  notes  of  all  he 
had  heard  about  it — a  separate  page, 
too,  for  each  witness  (whether  sailor  or 
captain  or  surgeon  of  one  of  these 
ships),  where  he  set  down  all  he  tes 
tified  and  his  address,  so  that  each 
man  could  be  found  and  personally  ex 
amined.  He  got  heaps  of  affidavits, 
too,  from  different  persons.  All  this 
was  so  well  arranged  that  he  could  lay 
his  hand,  in  a  moment,  on  any  piece  of 
evidence  that  might  be  called  for.  When 
every  thing  was  prepared,  William  Pitt, 
who  was  Prime  Minister  at  that  time, 
agreed  to  see  Thomas  Clarkson  and  to 
examine  the  testimony  he  had  collected. 
He  cross-examined  him  (as  you  heard 
the  lawyers  do  the  witnesses  on  your 
trial)  for  three  or  four  hours.  Clarkson 
had  his  books  beside  him,  and  answered 
every  question,  even  about  the  smallest 
details,  without  the  least  hesitation. 
When  it  was  over,  Mr.  Pitt  said  to  him : 
<  Mr.  Clarkson,  all  that  I  can  do  to  put 
an  end  to  the  slave-trade  shall  be  done.' 
He  kept  his  word.  A  law  was  passed 
to  prevent  any  Englishman  from  buying 
men  in  Africa  and  sending  them  on  board 
prison-slavers. 

"  Now,  Terence,  what  I   want  you  to 
observe   is,  that  as  long  as   men  made 


fine  speeches,  like  Mr.  Bagster's,  in 
favor  of  these  innocent  people,  it  did  no 
good  :  they  were  still  put  in  irons  and 
sent  to  these  horrible  ships.  But  when 
Thomas  Clarkson  found  out  the  proper 
witnesses,  and  collected  their  evidence, 
and  laid  it  before  a  man  who  had  power 
to  make  it  all  right,  then  the  great  wrong 
that  had  been  done  for  so  many  years 
was  stopped  at  once.  Can  you  guess, 
now,  why  I  told  you  all  this,  and  what 
I  intend  to  do  in  your  case  ?" 

It  was  a  study  to  note  the  various 
changes  that  passed  over  the  prisoner's 
face,  like  clouds  over  an  inclement  April 
sky,  as  Kullen  gave  him  this  brief  fa 
miliar  sketch  of  one  of  the  greatest 
episodes  in  the  history  of  the  world. 
Like  many  of  his  class  and  nation,  he 
had  hitherto  cared  little  for  the  black 
man,  and  given  scant  attention  to  what 
concerned  his  sufferings  or  his  wrongs. 
But  Kullen  had  placed  the  matter  before 
him  in  a  new  light,  and  at  the  very  time 
his  mind  was  prepared  to  receive  it. 
Adversity  was  enlightening  him.  He 
was  learning  her  lessons,  bitter  but 
wholesome.  And  the  young  man  was 
coming  slowly  back  to  life.  To  Kullen's 
question  whether  he  guessed  his  inten 
tions,  he  replied,  after  a  pause,  "  Maybe 
1  do." 

"I'm  not  an  orator,"  said  the  other. 
"  I  can't  draw  tears  from  the  eyes  of 
jurymen,  as  Bagster  does.  But  I'm  a 
worker,  like  Thomas  Clarkson.  I  am 
prison-agent  of  this  State.  It's  my  duty 
to  look  into  cases  like  yours.  Now 
hearken  to  what  I've  got  to  say.  I've 
already  told  you  that  I  don't  believe  you 
ever  took  that  money.  If  you  didn't, 
I'll  do  what  living  man  may  to  find  out 
the  truth,  and  clear  you.  If  I  send 
you  back,  cleared,  not  a  rascal  of  them 
all  will  be  able  to  say  one  word  against 
your  character,  unless  he  lies  ;  and  as  to 
liars,  I've  a  notion  you  can  attend  to 
their  case  yourself,  when  you  get  strong 
again  and  get  out." 

Terence  smiled  grimly,  and  Kullen 
went  on  : 

»  I'll  do  all  this  for  you,  and  it  shall 
not  cost  you  a  cent — on  one  condition." 

"  What's  that  ?" 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


57 


"You  see  I  don't  like  to  work  for 
dead  men  :  it's  as  much  as  I  can  do  to 
attend  to  the  living.  When  they've 
brought  the  jail-coffin  for  you  and  put 
you  under  ground,  I  shall  have  lost  all  in 
terest  in  your  case.  If  a  man  is  a  cow 
ard,  and  won't  stay  here  to  see  his  case 
through,  and  live  down  slander  and  per 
jury,  and  knock  down  every  vagabond 
that  insults  his  wife  and  children,  he 
can't  expect  anybody  else  to  do  it  for 
him.  If  the  scum  of  the  street,  as  you 
call  them,  throw  it  up  to — " 

"  Norah,"  suggested  Terence,  as  Kul- 
len  hesitated. 

"Yes,  if  they  ever  throw  it  up  to 
Norah  that  she's  a  thief's  wife,  or  to  her 
children  that  they  had  a  convict  for  a 
father,  it  will  be  nobody's  fault  but 
yours.  Now  I  want  to  know,  once  for 
all,  whether  you're  going  to  starve  your 
self  to  death,  or  to  eat  that  dinner  ?" 

Another  grim  smile.  Terence  slowly 
drew  the  table  close  and  cut  himself  a 
large  slice  of  bread.  At  the  first  mouth 
ful  the  animal  instinct  that  rules  a  fam 
ished  man  came  back  in  all  its  force. 
He  began  to  devour  the  food. 

"  Slowly,  man,  slowly  !"  said  Kullen. 
"  That  won't  do.  I'm  going  to  put  you 
on  half  rations  for  to-day  and  to-mor 
row,  or  we'll  have  you  in  the  hospital 
after  that  two  days'  fast  of  yours.  You'll 
have  time  enough.  You  can't  track  an 
old  fox  to  his  hole  and  dig  him  out  in  a 
day  :  then  I've  got  other  cases  to  attend 
to  besides  yours.  It  will  be  three  or 
four  weeks,  maybe  twice  as  many,  before 
I  get  evidence  enough  to  satisfy  Judge 
Thomas."  (The  prisoner  drooped  at 
this,  and  the  hopeless  look  came  over 
his  face  again.)  "  Fie,  man  !  Is  that 
all  the  patience  and  the  courage  you 
have  ?  What  are  six  or  eight  weeks  ? 
You'll  need  that  time  to  get  strong, 
before  you  undertake  the  ragamuffins 
that  are  to  cast  up  lies  to  Norah  and  the 
children." 

The  victory  was  won.  And  although, 
afterward,  Terence  did,  now  and  then, 
chafe  against  the  bars,  like  some  caged 
wild  beast,  yet  he  behaved,  on  the 
whole,  as  well  as  could  be  expected  of 
an  impetuous  and  untutored  nature. 


A  trifling  incident  that  occurred  that 
very  day  greatly  encouraged  him. 

Interrogated  as  to  his  antecedents  by 
Kullen,  he  stated  that  he  had  worked 
three  years  and  a  half  on  the  farm  of  a 
Mr.  Richards. 

"  Richards  ?     Living  where  ?" 

"  In  Cumberland  county,  near  Car 
lisle." 

"  Had  he  a  son  grown  ?" 

"  Yes,  but  I  never  saw  him.  He 
lived  in  Philadelphia,  I  think." 

Kullen  left  the  cell  abruptly,  and  re- 
entered  it  a  quarter  of  an  hour  later. 

"Are  you  a  believer  in  Providence, 
Terence  ?" 

"  Sure  an'  I  was,  Mister  Kullen,  till 
they  sint  me  to  prison  for  nothin'  at  all." 

"  Well,  you'll  have  to  come  back  to 
your  old  belief.  Only  think !  The 
under-keeper  that  brings  you  your  meals 
is  old  Mr.  Richards'  son,  Walter  ;  and 
he  says  he  remembers  his  father  talking 
to  him  last  spring,  when  he  went  to  see 
him,  about  a  young  Irishman  that  had 
been  three  or  four  years  with  him — the 
best  hand  and  the  honestest  man  he  had 
ever  had  on  the  farm.  Now  ain't  you 
ashamed  to  have  lost  heart  as  you  did  ?" 

Terence  clasped  his  hands :  "  The 
Lord  be  praised  !  Well,  I'll  never  mis 
doubt  Providence  again." 

"  Not  till  the  next  time.  Take  care, 
Terence  !  Suppose  I  don't  get  you  out, 
after  all  ?" 

"And  isn't  yer  honor  after  tellin'  me 
ye're  goin'  to  get  me  off  as  sure  as 
there's  a  God  above  ?  And  would  I  be 
doubtin'  ye,  Mister  Kullen,  and  makin' 
a  liar  of  ye,  Mister  Kullen  ?  I  know 
better  nor  that." 

"  Oh,  you'll  do  !  There  will  be  no 
trouble  about  making  you  eat  now. 
Well,  I  stand  to  my  bargain." 


CHAPTER  IX. 
THE   RECONSIDERATION. 

FAITHFULLY  did  that  good  prison- 
agent  carry  out  his  promise.  He  went 
first  to  Carlisle  and  obtained  Mr.  Rich 
ards'  affidavit.  Nothing  could  be  more 
satisfactory.  During  the  last  years  of 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


Terence's  service  the  old  man  had  en 
trusted  him  with  large  sums  of  money; 
had  made  him  manager  of  a  spacious 
market-garden,  the  produce  of  which 
Terence  sold  in  the  adjoining  town  ;  and 
had  also  occasionally  sent  him  to  Harris- 
burg  with  a  drove  of  cattle  to  sell.  He 
gave  him  the  highest  character  for  hon 
esty  and  fidelity.  During  the  term  of 
his  service,  Terence  had  married  the 
daughter  of  a  neighboring  farmer,  and 
when  he  resolved  to  seek  his  fortune  in 
Philadelphia,  his  master  had  agreed  to 
his  departure  with  great  regret. 

Returning  to  that  city,  Kullen  made 
still  more  important  discoveries.  He 
obtained  from  Terence  the  name  of  the 
grocer  with  whom  he  chiefly  dealt,  P.  R. 
Hardy,  to  whom  Terence  thought  he 
had  paid  some  money  a  day  or  two  be 
fore  his  arrest.  When  the  case  was  ex 
plained,  the  grocer  turned  to  his  books  : 
"Yes,  on  the  seventh  of  May,  O'Reilly 
paid  me  ten  dollars  and  a  quarter." 

"  Did  he  pay  it  out  of  a  linen  bag, 
with  gold  pieces  in  it." 

«  Now  I  come  to  think  of  it,"  said  the 
man,  after  a  pause,  "  he  did  ;  and,  more 
than  that,  the  careless  fellow  left  that  very 
bag  lying  on  the  counter.  I  picked  it 
up  soon  after  he  left ;  and  as  I  wasn't 
sure  whether  it  was  his  or  not,  I  thought 
I'd  make  a  note  on  a  bit  of  paper  of 
what  was  in  it.  It  was  a  considerable 
sum,  I  remember,  and  Terence  called 
for  it  that  same  evening." 

«  What  became  of  the  bit  of  paper  ?" 

"  Can't  say.  I  generally  put  such 
things  in  the  till.  I'll  see."  Then,  after 
a  brief  search  :  "  Sure  enough,  here  it 
is.  I'd  swear  to  that  any  day."  And 
he  tossed  over  the  counter  to  Mr.  Kul 
len  a  precious  document,  reading  thus  : 
"  MEM.  Money  in  linen  bag.  May  7, 

1855. 
$170  oo  in  eagles. 

45   50  in  smaller  gold  and  silver  change. 

20  oo  in  notes. 


$235   50 

«  Likely  belongs  to  T.  CPR." 

The  authenticity  of  this  memorandum, 
and  the  circumstances  under  which  it 
was  made,  were  duly  sworn  to  by  Hardy. 


It  was  two  months  after  this  that  the 
man  who  was  present  when  Terence  so 
incautiously  exposed  the  contents  of  the 
bag  before  Cassiday,  returned  from  the 
South  ;  but  he  remembered,  and  swore 
to,  all  the  circumstances.  This  brought 
the  scienter,  as  lawyers  say,  home  to  the 
accusing  witness,  satisfactorily  explain 
ing  how,  by  rapidly  counting  the  gold, 
he  came  to  name  a  hundred  and  seventy 
dollars,  in  eagles,  as  the  sum  he  lost. 

While  waiting  for  this  testimony, 
Kullen  set  about  the  most  difficult  part 
of  his  task — to  trace  Cassiday's  antece 
dents.  He  obtained  a  certificate  from 
the  clerk  of  the  court  of  Berks  county 
to  the  effect  that  no  such  person  as 
Gottlieb  Bauerman  lived,  or  had  re 
cently  lived,  in  that  county  ;  but  he  was 
not  satisfied  with  that.  Yet  he  was 
long  at  fault  while  searching  farther. 
He  could  hear  of  no  such  person  as 
Byron  Cassiday,  and  he  began  to  suspect 
the  name  might  be  assumed. 

One  day  he  cross-questioned  Terence 
closely  : 

"  Try  to  remember  every  word  Cassi 
day  said,  and  everything  he  did,  that 
first  evening.  It's  important,  Terence. 
Did  he  hesitate  when  you  asked  him  his 
name  ?" 

«  Well,  I  do'  know  as  he  did.  I  re 
member  I  called  him  Bryan,  and  says 
he — quite  warm  like,  as  if  I  had  misca'd 
him  o'  purpose — says  he,  'What  for  d'ye 
call  me  Bryan  ?  it's  Byron's  me  name.' 
I  might  a'  known  he  was  a  false  thief, 
and  no  Irish  heart  aboot  him,  to  like 
Byron  better  nor  Bryan  for  a  name  to 
go  by." 

Kullen  was  something  of  a  detective. 
His  experience  in  tracing  out  evidence 
had  rendered  him  very  observant  of 
trifles.  After  a  minute  or  two's  thought 
he  went  to  a  drawer  in  the  prisoner's 
table,  where  he  usually  kept  the  papers 
in  this  case,  and  took  thence  the  manu 
script  notes  which  Bagster  had  made  in 
anticipation  of  the  trial,  running  them 
over  carefully.  Two  of  them  arrested 
his  attention,  and  he  copied  them  out. 
The  first  was  this  : 

"  No  name  on  the  Register  of  the 
police  station  at  Port  Richmond  (except 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


59 


of  persons  well  known  to  the  officers] 
but  one  only— BRYAN  DELORNY,  and 
he  came  from  Pottsville" 

The  second  was : 

"  Description  of  prosecuting  witness  : 
middle-sized,  appears  to  be  from  30  to  35 
years  old.  No  beard.  Brown  whiskers 
and  brown,  curling  hair.  A  purple  scar 
across  the  left  ear.  Features  well 
formed,  but  injured  by  a  furtive  ex 
pression" 

" It's  worth  looking  after,  at  any 
rate,"  said  Kullen,  as  he  placed  these 
memoranda  in  his  pocket. 

He  went  first  to  Terence's  tavern, 
now  carried  on,  after  a  fashion,  by  the 
barkeeper,  Patrick  Murphy,  with  Bridget 
to  attend  to  the  boarders.  It  had  been 
shut  up  for  several  days  after  the  trial ; 
but  Kullen  had  called  on  Mrs.  O'Reilly, 
encouraged  her  about  her  husband,  and, 
by  his  advice,  the  house  had  been  re 
opened.  Kullen  carefully  examined  the 
name  in  the  register  under  date  May  9  : 
"Byron  Cassiday,  Port  Richmond:" 
then,  taking  the  book  with  him,  he  pro 
ceeded  to  the  Port  Richmond  police 
station,  and  asked  to  be  allowed  to  look 
at  their  record  for  May  last. 

"  I  want  you  to  examine  two  signa 
tures,"  he  said  presently  to  one  of  the 
officers,  an  experienced  detective,  "  and 
tell  me  what  you  think  of  them." 

The  officer  compared  them  critically 
for  several  minutes. 

«  Well  ?"  said  Kullen. 

"  The  same  man  wrote  both." 

"Are  you  sure  of  that  ?" 

"  Dead  sure  !  Look  for  yourself. 
There's  the  capital  B  in  Byron  and  in 
Bryan  ;  then  there's  the  Po  in  Port  and 
the  Po  in  Pottsville,  as  like  as  two  pins: 
there  can  be  no  chance  in  all  that. 
Look  at  the  y's,  too — four  of  them — 
two  in  Byron  Cassiday  and  two  in  Bryan 
Delorny.  A  half-blind  man  could  see 
they're  by  the  same  hand.  How's  this?" 
He  examined  the  date  on  the  tavern 
register,  then  that  on  the  police  record  : 
"  Why,  the  man  went  right  from  our 
station  to  that  tavern,  and  changed  his 
name  on  the  way.  On  the  track  of 
some  villainy,  ain't  you  ?" 

"  It  looks  like  it." 


"  Here's  a  memorandum  by  one  of 
our  men  :  <  Came  on  a  coal  train  from 
Pottsville.''  Let's  see :  that's  Tom 
Sullivan's  hand.  Tom  !" 

An  officer  entered  from  an  inner 
room,  and  the  detective  said  to  him : 
"  Here's  a  note  of  yours,  Tom,  isn't 
it  ?  Do  you  remember  anything  of  the 
coal-train  passenger  ?" 

"  Not  much  to  his  credit,"  said  the 
officer,  examining  the  memorandum.  «  I 
took  special  notice  of  the  man,  for  I 
didn't  like  his  looks.  A  scaly  customer, 
I  should  say.  Couldn't  look  a  man 
straight  in  the  face.  A  scar  on  one  of 
his  ears.  Been  in  rows  enough,  I'll 
warrant." 

"A  scar,  you  say?"  asked  Kullen. 

"Across  the  left  ear — a  blue  line, 
from  a  cut,  probably.  That  your  man  ?" 

"  Any  beard  ?" 

"  No.  Brown  whiskers.  Hair  curl 
ing.  Rather  handsome,  if  it  hadn't  been 
for  that  down  look  of  his." 

"  It's  all  right,"  said  Kullen,  referring 
to  Bagster's  memorandum.  "What 
account  did  the  fellow  give  of  himself?" 

"  That  he  hadn't  a  cent  to  pay  for  his 
supper  and  night's  lodging.  Some  story, 
I  think,  about  losing  his  wallet  at  Potts 
ville.  Any  way,  we  gave  him  something 
to  eat,  and  let  him  stay  the  night.  It 
was  a  regular  storm,  I  remember,  and  he 
was  soaking  wet." 

Kullen  felt  pretty  sure  that  he  held  the 
clue  in  his  hand,  and  his  next  visit  was 
to  Pottsville.  He  went  at  once  to  a 
friend  of  his,  John  Clews,  a  lawyer  of 
the  place.  To  Kullen's  question  whether 
they  knew  anything  in  Pottsville  of  a 
certain  Bryan  Delorny,  Clews  replied  : 

"  I  should  think  we  did  ! — more,  a 
good  deal,  than  we  ever  care  to  know 
again." 

"  Tell  me  about  him.  I  have  good 
reason  for  asking." 

"  Pretended  to  do  business  among  us, 
but  turned  out  a  common  loafer  and 
drunkard.  Swindled  us  here,  right  and 
left.  First  he  cheated  the  keeper  of 
a  public-house  where  he  lodged  and 
boarded  ;  then,  several  of  our  store 
keepers :  worse  than  that,  his  washer 
woman,  a  hard-working  soul,  a  widow 


6o 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


with  three  children  ;  worst  of  all,  a  poor 
sick  seamstress  who  sat  up,  when  she 
ought  to  have  been  in  bed,  to  make 
three  shirts  for  the  scamp,  and  hadn't  a 
loaf  of  bread  or  a  ten-cent  piece  in  the 
house  the  day  she  delivered  them  to 
him.  When  she  entreated  him  for  the 
pitiful  sum  he  owed  her,  he  laughed  in 
her  face  and  bid  her  sue  for  it  and  be 
damned.  Some  of  the  boys  heard  him. 
That  was  the  drop  too  much  for  us. 
We  got  hold  of  him,  gave  him  five  min 
utes  to  pack  his  bundle,  took  the  three 
new  shirts  out  of  it,  and  let  the  poor 
sick  creature  have  them.  Then  we  gave 
him  his  choice — either  to  have  a  tin  pan 
tied  to  his  coat-tails  and  be  ignomin- 
iously  drummed  out  of  town  for  a  vaga 
bond,  with  a  fair  supply  of  odoriferous 
eggs  and  similar  delicacies,  or  else  to 
save  us  the  trouble  by  taking  the  first 
train  for  Philadelphia.  He  pleaded  that 
he  had  no  money  to  pay  his  fare.  We 
searched  him  thoroughly,  and  found, 
sure  enough,  that  he  had  but  fifteen 
cents,  in  a  greasy  wallet.  There  was  a 
coal  train  just  starting.  We  gave  the 
conductor  a  dollar,  told  him  that  Potts- 
ville  would  regard  him  as  a  public  bene 
factor  if  he  would  give  the  rascal  an 
outside  seat  and  set  him  adrift — the 
farther  off,  the  better  we  should  like  it. 
He  set  him  down,  so  he  told  us  after 
ward,  near  Port  Richmond." 

Kullen  interested  Clews  in  Terence's 
story.  Through  his  aid  he  obtained  a 
deposition,  duly  authenticated,  setting 
forth  all  the  main  facts  above  related. 

It  took  even  longer  than  Kullen  had 
anticipated  to  collect  and  arrange  the 
testimony  necessary  to  establish,  beyond 
possible  cavil,  Terence  O'Reilly's  inno 
cence.  September  and  October  passed  : 
November  came,  and  the  poor  fellow 
was  still  in  prison.  The  repeated  de 
lays  incident  to  such  work  greatly  an 
noyed  the  kind-hearted  prison -agent, 
certain  as  he  now  was  of  Terence's  in 
nocence.  The  prisoner  might  have  had 
a  visit  from  Norah  and  the  children  ; 
for,  under  the  separate  system  in  the 
prisons  of  Pennsylvania,  such  visits  are 
permitted  at  regular  intervals.  But  he 
had  made  a  vow  to  himself  that  his 


family  should  never  come  near  him  till 
he  could  embrace  them  as  a  free  man, 
with  character  cleared  of  all  suspicion. 
He  adhered  doggedly  to  this  self-im 
posed  vow  ;  but,  as  the  weeks  passed, 
and  he  recovered  bodily  health  and 
strength,  that  hope  deferred  which 
maketh  the  heart  sick  preyed  upon  him, 
till  his  impatience  rose,  at  times,  almost 
to  frenzy. 

At  last,  quite  late  in  the  evening  of 
the  seventeenth  of  November,  Kullen 
procured  the  last  of  eight  important 
affidavits,  containing  legal  proof — 

First :  That  two  days  before  the  al 
leged  theft  the  prosecuting  witness  had 
but  fifteen  cents  in  his  possession,  while 
the  accused  had  upward  of  a  hundred 
and  seventy  dollars,  in  gold  eagles,  loose 
in  a  linen  bag. 

Second:  That  the  said  witness  had 
deposed  under  a  false  name,  his  real 
name  being  Bryan  Delorny ;  that  he 
was  a  common  drunkard  and  swindler, 
disgracefully  expelled  as  such  from  the 
town  of  Pottsville. 

Third :  That  the  witness  before  go 
ing  up  to  bed,  on  the  night  of  the  al 
leged  theft,  had  had  an  opportunity  to 
see  and  count  the  gold-pieces  found  in 
the  possession  of  the  accused. 

And,  finally  :  That  the  said  witness 
had  given  a  false  reference  when  asked 
where  he  obtained  the  money  which 
he  alleged  to  have  been  stolen  from 
him. 

It  was  nearly  ten  o'clock  at  night 
when  Mr.  Kullen,  fortified  with  these 
overwhelming  proofs  that  an  innocent 
man  had  been  sentenced  to  nine  months' 
imprisonment,  and  accompanied  by  the 
under-keeper,  Richards,  reached  the 
residence  of  Judge  Thomas.  The  ser 
vant  at  first  refused  to  take  up  their 
names,  saying  that  the  judge  was  occu 
pied  with  business  of  the  utmost  im 
portance,  and  had  ordered  that  he  should 
not  be  disturbed.  Finally  he  consented 
to  deliver  a  message  from  the  prison- 
agent  to  the  effect  that  his  business 
brooked  no  delay ;  and,  after  some  de 
mur,  they  were  admitted. 

The  judge  received  them  somewhat 
abruptly. 


BETOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


61 


« Well,  Mr  Kullen,"  he  said,  " what 
is  it  ?" 

"  A  criminal  case  which  I  am  very 
anxious  you  should  reconsider."* 

"  I  have  no  time  to  consider  any  case 
to-night.  Call  to-morrow  evening." 

"  It's  a  case  where  the  greatest  in 
justice  has  been  done,  judge  ;  as  I  can 
prove  to  your  satisfaction,  if  you'll  listen 
to  me  for  half  an  hour." 

« I  tell  you  I  have  no  half  hour  to 
spare  for  any  such  business.  What's 
this  case  that's  so  important  it  can't  be 
put  off  foi  a  single  day  ?" 

"  A  man  you  sentenced  for  larceny 
last  August— Terence  O'Reilly." 

« Oh,  it's  that  young  Irish  fellow, 
is  it?" 

«  Yes  —  as  clear  a  case  of  perjury  as 
ever  I  met  with  in  my  life." 

"  Let  me  tell  you,  Mr.  Kullen,  that  I 
sha'n't  reconsider  that  case,  neither  to 
night  nor  any  other  night.  It  was  a 
protracted  trial — two  whole  days.  If 
the  man's  life  had  depended  on  it,  it 
couldn't  have  been  managed  with  more 
skill  and  care.  I  haven't  a  doubt  of  the 
prisoner's  guilt.  That  Bagster's  elo 
quence  is  ringing  in  my  ears  now. 
You're  losing  your  time  to  talk*to  me 
after  the  defence  he  made.  Once  for 
all,  I  won't  reconsider  it." 

"  You're  a  just  man,  judge — impartial 
and  merciful,  too,  when  mercy  ought  to 
be  shown.  But  you  are  hasty,  especially 
when  you  have  a  lot  of  work  on  hand. 
If  you  stick  to  that  last  resolution  and 
refuse  to  hear  this  case,  and  if,  by  and 
by,  the  truth  comes  to  your  ears,  you'll 
never  forgive  yourself.  I  know  you." 

"  Do  you  ?  Well,  I  can  return  the 
compliment.  I  know  you  for  one  of  the 
most  incorrigibly  obstinate  fellows  I 
ever  had  the  bad  luck  to  encounter. 
Some  of  your  ancestors  must  surely  have 
been  Scotch  :  are  you  sure  you're  not 
descended  from  John  Knox  ?  I  see 

*  At  the  date  of  this  narrative  (1855)  the  Court  of 
Quarter  Sessions  of  the  county  of  Philadelphia  claimed, 
and  exercised,  the  prerogative  to  reconsider  the  ver 
dict  under  which  a  criminal  had  been  convicted,  and  to 
discharge  him  from  custody.  It  was  but  during  the 
year  1868  that  the  Supreme  Court  of  the  State  of 
Pennsylvania  overruled  that  interpretation  of  the  court 
below. 


what  I  shall  have  to  do.  You  may  talk 
about  my  justice,  but  you'll  force  me  to 
imitate  an  un]us\.  judge  that  you've  read 
about.  There  was  a  widow,  you  may 
remember,  who  was  as  great  a  plague 
to  him  as  you  are  to  me ;  and  he  con 
cluded  to  hear  her  at  last,  lest  by  her 
continual  coming  she  should  weary  him. 
That's  the  shortest  way  to  get  rid  of 
you.  To-night  it's  entirely  out  of  the 
question,"  putting  his  hand  on  a  bundle 
of  documents  :  "  it  will  take  me  half  the 
night  to  get  through  with  these,  and 
they  must  be  disposed  of  before  I  go 
into  court  in  the  morning.  To-morrow 
evening,  at  eight.  Till  then,  good-bye 
to  you." 

"  I'm  very  sorry,  judge  :  I  know  you 
are  worked  a  great  deal  too  hard.  But 
I've  labored  at  this  case  for  two  months. 
My  heart's  in  it.  This  is  the  twelfth 
week  that  poor  young  fellow  has  been  in 
prison.  He's  half  crazy  now.  I  gave 
him  my  word  that  the  evidence  in  his 
case  should  be  completed  and  should  be 
laid  before  you  to-night.  I  got  up  this 
morning  at  four,  and  I've  been  at  it 
every  minute  since  then.  Now  I've 
made  up  my  mind  not  to  stir  from  this 
place  to-night  till  I  get  a  hearing." 

The  judge  had  taken  his  pen,  unfolded 
one  of  the  documents  before  him  and 
commenced  a  memorandum.  He  threw 
the  pen  down  petulantly  and  addressed 
the  under-keeper : 

"  Richards,  is  craziness  infectious  in 
that  prison  of  yours  ?  Have  you  seen 
any  symptoms  of  it  in  Mr.  Kullen  before  ?" 

« I'm  afraid  I'm  not  a  good  judge, 
your  honor  ;  for  I  take  a'most  as  much 
interest  in  the  young  fellow  as  he  does." 

«*  Oh,  if  you're  all  crazy,  then  the 
matter's  hopeless." 

»« I  did  think  the  man  would  have 
died  on  our  hands,  judge,  he  took  it  so 
hard.  I  don't  believe  I  ever  should 
have  got  him  through,  if  it  hadn't  been 
for  Mr.  Kullen  ;  and  it  would  have  been 
a  great  pity.  He's  as  good  and  as 
honest  a  fellow  as  ever  lived." 

"How do  you  know  ?" 

«  He  worked  three  or  four  years  for 
my  father  in  Cumberland  county.  The 
old  man  set  the  greatest  store  by  him, 


62 


BETOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


would  have  trusted  him  with  untold 
gold,  and  took  it  awfully  hard  when  he 
heard  Terence  was  in  jail." 

«  I  see  it's  a  regular  conspiracy  against 
me.  Well,  a  man  may  as  well  submit 
first  as  last.  Come,  Mr.  Kullen,  since 
it  must  be,  be  as  brief  and  as  quick 
about  it  as  you  can." 

Before  the  prison-agent  had  read  two 
of  the  exculpatory  documents,  the  judge, 
quite  forgetting  his  impatience,  began  to 
take  as  much  interest  in  the  case  as 
Kullen  himself.  Then  came  the  grocer's 
memorandum.  "  Upon  my  word,  Kul 
len,"  he  said,  "  this  looks  like  the  finger 
of  Providence."  When  there  were  laid 
before  him  the  authenticated  proofs  that 
the  prosecuting  witness  had  deposed 
under  a  false  name,  and  that  he  was  a 
penniless,  notorious  swindler  who  had 
been  expelled  from  Pottsville,  the  good 
judge  brought  his  fist  down  on  the  table 
with  a  vigor  that  upset  the  mass  of  for 
gotten  documents  he  had  still  to  wade 
through. 

Kullen  saw  that  the  cause  was  gained  : 
"  Will  you  reconsider  the  case  and  cause 
the  clerk  of  the  court  to  make  out  an 
order  for  the  man's  discharge  to-morrow 
morning  ?" 

"No,  I  won't"  said  the  judge,  taking 
up  his  pen. 

"  You  won't  ?" 

"  No.  Do  you  think  I'd  leave  an  in 
nocent  man  like  that,  who  has  suffered 
so  shamefully  already,  one  night  more  in 
prison  than  I  can  help  ?  Richards  here 
will  take  an  informal  order  from  me  at 
once,  and  I'll  make  it  all  right  with  the 
clerk  to-morrow.  Won't  you,  Richards  ?" 

"  God  bless  your  honor's  kind  heart !" 
said  Richards  :  "  of  course  I  will." 

The  judge  wrote  out  the  order  accord 
ingly,  and  handed  it  to  the  prison-agent. 
"  You're  a  good  fellow,  Kullen,"  he  said, 
warmly  ;  "and  if  you  only  knew  what  an 
infernal  lot  of  papers  I've  got  to  go 
through  to-night — bless  me !  who  scat 
tered  them  all  over  the  floor  ? — you 
would  excuse  my  hastiness." 

Kullen  wrung  the  honest  judge's  hand 
without  a  word,  the  moisture  rising  to 
his  own  eyes;  and  he  and  Richards 
hurried  off  to  the  prison. 


A  little  before  three  o'clock  that 
morning,  Terence,  his  convict-dress 
cast  off  for  ever,  yet  the  man  scarcely 
convinced  that  he  was  at  last  free  and 
beyond  reach  of  reproach,  stood  once 
more  at  the  door  of  his  dwelling,  and 
startled  its  inmates  by  a  loud  demand 
for  admission. 


CHAPTER  X. 

AMOS  CRANSTOUN. 

LET  us  revert  some  ten  weeks  and  to 
Chiskauga,  for  that  morning  visit  of  the 
aunt  and  niece  to  Mr.  Sydenham  yet  re 
mains  to  be  described. 

Our  readers  may  remember  that  while 
Byron  Cassiday,  or  Bryan  Delorny  (let 
each  select  the  paternal  or  maternal 
patronymic*  as  to  him  seems  best),  was 
seated  on  that  grassy  knoll  and  wishing 
Terence  O'Reilly  out  of  prison,  without 
doing  anything  to  procure  his  enlarge 
ment,  the  said  Byron  or  Bryan,  looking 
northward  over  Sydenham's  residence, 
discerned,  beyond  the  vineyards,  on  the 
line  of  a  brook,  indications  of  a  waterfall. 

On  the  banks  of  Kinshon  Creek,  be 
side  tjiat  waterfall,  under  a  rustic  arbor 
of  trellis-work  overrun  with  grapevines, 
sat  two  young  ladies  in  earnest  talk. 
They  were  worth  seeing,  and,  what  is 
better,  worth  knowing — very  unlike  each 
other  in  appearance,  but  each  possessing 
no  little  share  of  beauty. 

The  stature  of  the  one  just  reached 
middle  size.  Her  well-developed  form, 
with  its  rounded  outlines,  was  finely  pro 
portioned,  and  its  motions  were  easy  and 
graceful ;  small,  dimpled  hands,  and 
small  feet.  Her  eyes  were  blue,  soft, 
thoughtful ;  her  hair,  curling  in  ringlets, 
was  light  brown,  with  a  golden  tinge  in 
it.  Her  face,  not  quite  long  enough  for 
the  classical  model,  had  a  child-like  ex 
pression  about  it,  very  pretty  (that  word, 
rather  than  handsome,  occurred  to  one 
in  looking  at  her)  ;  a  chin  slightly  re 
ceding  ;  a  very  fair  complexion,  and  a 
delicate  color  in  the  cheeks.  There  was 

*As  we  do  not  say  matronymic,  I  assume  that 
patronymic,  like  the  word  man,  may  occasionally  refer 
to  either  sex  ;  the  etymology  to  the  contrary  notwith 
standing. 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


a  touch  of  languor  about  her,  and  she 
looked  a  little  out  of  health  and  spirits. 
This  was  Celia  Pembroke. 

The  other,  a  full  inch  taller,  though 
evidently  several  years  younger,  con 
trasted  strongly  with  her  companion. 
She  seemed  in  brilliant  health.  Her 
figure  was  lithe,  agile,  vigorous,  but 
somewhat  slender,  giving  promise  of  re- 
_markable  beauty  when  a  few  years  more 
should  have  filled  up  the  outlines  and 
expanded  the  form.  The  limbs  were  a 
little  longer  in  proportion  than  Celia's, 
and  her  hands  and  feet  larger,  but  per 
fectly  well  formed  ;  the  fingers  long  and 
tapering,  and  the  foot  with  the  "  Arab 
arch."  Her  face  showed  the  faultless 
oval,  more  frequent  in  Italy  than  among 
us  ;  the  nose  was  very  slightly  aquiline  : 
otherwise  the  features  were  classical,  but 
with  nothing  of  the  tameness  sometimes 
marking  this  type  ;  the  expression  de 
noting  high  spirit,  full  of  life  and  hope 
and  energy  and  intelligence.  Thorough 
bred,  one  might  have  been  tempted  to 
style  her.  A  clear,  bright  brunette,  with 
large,  dark-brown  eyes,  that  could  flash 
as  well  as  melt.  Her  hair,  too,  was 
brown — long,  thick,  dark,  silky — «  une 
chevelure  magnifique,"  as  the  French 
say,  choosing  to  designate,  by  a  single 
word,  what  we  somewhat  strangely  call 
a  "  head  of  hair."  The  chin  was  well 
set  and  delicately  cut.  its  form  indicating 
(Lavater  would  have  said)  resolution. 
That  was  Leoline  Sydenham. 

What  these  young  girls  were  saying 
to  each  other  I  do  not  purpose  to  dis 
close.  The  elder  people,  Celia's  aunt 
and  Leoline's  father,  were  talking  in 
doors.  Let  us  listen  to  them. 

They  were  sitting  in  the  recess  of  a 
bay  window  opening  east  on  the  lawn. 
Sydenham  had  made  the  usual  inquiries 
after  the  health  and  welfare  of  her  family, 
to  which  Mrs.  Hartland  had  replied  with 
that  absent,  preoccupied  manner  which 
indicates  a  purpose  to  enter  on  an  im 
portant  subject  that  the  speaker  has  not 
exactly  determined  how  to  broach,  or 
has  not  mustered  courage  to  encounter. 

When  Sydenham  paused,  the  color 
came  slightly  to  her  cheeks,  and  she 
said,  hastily  : 


« Mr.  Sydenham,  I  fear  that  I  am 
about  to  take  an  unwarrantable  liberty 
with  you,  but  our  old  friendship,  your 
uniform  kindness — 

"Alice,'  said  Sydenham,  smiling,  "I 
was  beginning  to  think  you  had  quite 
forgotten  that  happy  old  time  when  your 
excellent  sister  and  you  and  I  were  chil 
dren  together.  You  have  never  called 
me  Frank,  as  you  used  to  do  then,  ex 
cept  the  very  first  time  we  met  on  my 
arrival  here  ;  and  we  see  you  so  seldom 
here  among  us." 

"  It  is  not  customary." 

"  Not  customary  for  old  friends,  living 
in  a  country  village,  and  who  certainly 
have  not  quarreled,  to  visit  each  other  ?" 

"  I  did  not  mean  that — " 

"Ah  !  I  am  glad  to  see  you  smile 
once  more." 

"  Surely  you  cannot  doubt  that  to 
visit  you  and  my  favorite  Leoline,  and 
dear,  good  Mrs.  Clymer,  whom  every 
body  loves,  must  be  a  pleasure  to  me. 
But  Mr.  Hartland — you  know  his  ways. 
He  is  more  devoted  to  his  favorite 
botany  and  entomology  than  ever ;  and 
he  seems  never  satisfied  unless  I  am  at 
home.  While  he  is  in  the  field  he  ex 
pects  me  to  make  colored  drawings,  for 
the  work  he  is  getting  out,  of  every  un- 
described  flower  and  insect  he  finds. 
Then  I  have  to  label  his  specimens,  ar 
range  his  cabinets  ;  and  so,  what  with 
these  and  my  domestic  duties — " 

"  You  have  not  time  or  thought  to 
spare  for  your  neighbors.  Well,  I  will 
not  quarrel  with  my  friend  Hartland 
about  the  importance  of  his  scientific 
pursuits  ;  but,  upon  my  word,  I  hold 
this  same  science  to  be  a  villainous  en 
grosser,  an  arrant  monopolizer  as  ever 
sold  salt  in  Queen  Elizabeth's  days.  I 
shall  owe -it  a  downright  grudge,  Alice, 
if  it  carry  you  off  too.  We  can't  spare 
you  out  of  the  world.  These  insects  are 
very  curious — I  have  spent  hours  in  ad 
miring  them — but  they  are  not  worthy 
of  having  the  interest  one  takes  in  hu 
mankind  wholly  squandered  on  them. 
These  undescribed  flowers  that  grow 
under  your  pencil — I  don't  doubt  their 
grace  and  beauty — but  when  Hartland 
gets  out  his  work,  I  am  sure  I  shall 


64 


BETOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


never  look  at  them  with  patience,  if 
they  are  to  steal  your  affections  away 
from  us." 

A  painful  expression  crossed  Mrs. 
Hartland's  gentle  face  for  a  moment,  and 
then  was  gone.  "  I  strive  to  take  an 
interest  in  my  husband's  pursuits,"  she 
said  :  "  it  is  my  duty.  And  I  do  take 
interest  in  them — much  more  than  I 
once  thought  I  ever  could.  You  don't 
know,"  she  added,  with  a  faint  smile, 
"  how  learned  I  have  become  in  genera 
and  species — 

"  Dear  Alice,"  interrupted  Sydenham, 
"  forgive  me.  I  was  wrong,  and  you  are 
right.  You  shall  come  to  us  just  when 
you  please  and  when  you  can.  You 
know  how  welcome  you  are.  But  you 
have  not  told  me  yet  what  it  is  that  is 
not  customary." 

«  Oh,  I  meant  that  it  is  not  the  custom 
for  married  persons,  unconnected  by 
blood,  to  call  each  other  by  their  first 
names." 

"  Is  it  not  ?  Well,  I  never  wore  the 
straight  coat,  though  my  father  did.  But 
I  have  quite  enough  of  the  Quaker 
leaven  within  me  to  sanctify,  among  old 
friends  at  least,  that  beautiful  patriarchal 
custom,  a  reminder  of  the  common 
brotherhood  of  mankind.  And  you  too, 
Alice  :  your  good  mother  wore  the  plain 
cap  and  bonnet  to  the  day  of  her  death. 
It  strikes  me  that  might  justify  her 
daughter  in  calling  an  old  schoolmate 
Frank." 

«  I  think  I  am  quite  as  much  Quaker 
as  you — " 

«  Frank.  Mr.  Sydenham  won't  fit  in 
there  at  all." 

"Well,  I  think  I  am  quite  as  much 
Quaker  as  you,  Frank  ;  but  Mr.  Hart- 
land  is  not.  Sometimes  he  seems  as  if 
he  wished  me  to  forget  my  Quaker 
origin." 

"  Is  he  so  much  prejudiced  ?" 

"  He  is  a  strict  Congregationalist,  as 
you  know  ;  and  I  have  heard  him  speak, 
in  general  terms,  of  the  dangerous  lati 
tude  which  the  followers  of  William 
Penn  allow  themselves.  I  never  heard 
him  say  a  syllable  on  this  particular 
subject  of  Christian  names.  But,  as  I 
have  always  called  him  Mr.  Hartland, 


I  think,  Mr.  Sydenham,  that  you  cannot 
object  to  sharing  the  same  fate,  my 
dear  mother's  plain  bonnet  to  the  con 
trary  notwithstanding." 

"Oh,"  said  Sydenham,  laughing,  "I 
have  not  a  word  more  to  say.  If  you 
have  never  called  your  husband  Thomas, 
I  am  not  surprised  that  you  should  have 
forgotten  to  call  me  Frank." 

The  painful  expression  shot  again,  for 
a  moment,  across  Alice's  face  ;  but  Syd 
enham,  not  observing  it,  added :  "And  am 
I  to  call  you  Mrs.  Hartland  in  return  ?" 

"  No,  indeed  no,"  she  replied,  earnest 
ly.  "  You  have  always  called  me  Alice  ; 
and  if  you  were  to  change  now,  I  should 
think  I  had  vexed  or  offended  you.  Be 
sides,  it  is  your  common  habit.  Do  you 
not  call  my  niece  Celia  ?" 

«  Do  I  ?" 

"Always :  I  have  particularly  remarked 
it.  And  that  reminds  me  of  the  purpose 
of  my  visit  to  you.  I  come  to  trouble 
you  about  affairs  not  your  own." 

"  My  dear  Alice,  you  shall  call  me 
just  what  you  please.  But  I  shall  quar 
rel  with  you  outright  if  you  ever  con 
sider  it  necessary  to  employ  preface  or 
apology  in  asking  my  advice  or  aid  in 
any  matter  that  concerns  or  interests 
you." 

"  Then,  as  I  don't  feel  able,  just  at 
present,  to  encounter  a  quarrel  outright 
with  you,  I  shall  come  to  the  point  at 
once.  It  is  a  matter  that  interests  me, 
for  it  concerns  the  happiness  of  dear 
Celia." 

"  Of  late  she  has  not  been  looking  so 
well  nor  so  happy  as  usual." 

"She  is  not  happy,  poor  child.  It  is 
the  old,  sad  story,"  said  Alice,  with  a 
sigh  : 

"  '  The  course  of  true  love  never  did  run  smooth.'  " 

"Ah  !"  said  Sydenham,  "she  has  made 
a  choice  ?" 

"  Does  that  surprise  you  ?  You  know 
nothing  of  it  ?  But  you  are  so  seldom 
with  us,  now.  Yes,  she  has  made  a 
choice,  and  one  that  does  not  at  all  suit 
Mr.  Hartland." 

"  May  I  know  the  name  ?" 

"  Certainly,  if  you  have  not  already 
guessed  it— Mr.  Mowbray." 


BEYOND    THE   BREAKERS. 


"And  what  are  Mr.  Hartland's  objec 
tions  to  Mowbray  ?" 

"  In  the  first  place,  his  poverty.  His 
mother  has  not  enough,  aside  from  what 
her  school  brings  in,  for  a  humble 
support." 

"Celia  must  have  thirty  thousand 
dollars." 

"  Forty  thousand.  Mr.  Hartland  has 
invested  for  her  prudently  and  profit 
ably." 

"  Barring  extravagant  ideas,  that  is 
enough  for  both."  • 

"Ah,  I  knew  you  would  look  at  the 
matter  as  I  do." 

"  But  perhaps  I  don't." 

« You  are  not  going  to  support  Mr. 
Hartland's  view,  surely  !" 

"  What  is  his  view  ?" 

"That  a  girl  with  forty  thousand  dol 
lars  is  entitled  to  look  for  a  correspond 
ing  fortune  in  a  husband." 

"  You  transport  me  back  to  Paris.  A 
hundred  thousand  livres  must  marry  a 
hundred  thousand  livres  ;  and,  to  do 
really  well,  ought  to  attract  and  subdue  a 
hundred  and  fifty  thousand.  Purses  are 
mated.  No  wonder  poor  hearts  take 
their  revenge  afterward.  No,  if  that  be 
Hartland's  view  of  the  matter,  I  never 
can  support  it.  Besides,  where,  in  this 
humble  village  of  ours,  is  he  to  find 
forty  thousand  dollars  for  her  ?  I  am 
altogether  too  old  :  Leoline  is  within  a 
few  years  of  Celia's  age." 

"  Oh,"  said  Alice,  quickly,  "  I  assure 
you  Mr.  Hartland  has  no  designs  upon 
you.  He  favors  a  very  different  man." 

"  He  has  some  one  in  view  then  ?" 

"  You  have  already  guessed  whom  :  I 
see  it." 

"  Indeed  I  have  not.  I  cannot  even 
imagine  whom,  in  this  neighborhood,  he 
would  select.  Why  should  you  think  I 
had  hit  upon  it  ?" 

"  Because  you  seemed  to  feel  alarmed, 
as  I  do  when  I  hear  Mr.  Hartland  urg 
ing  the  claims  of  Mr.  Cranstoun." 

«  Cranstoun  !  Amos  Cranstoun  !  Im 
possible  !" 

"  It  is  only  too  true." 

"This    is    serious,"    said    Sydenham 
after  a  pause.     "  The  wishes  of  the  dead, 
no  less  than  the   welfare  of  tke  living, 
5 


urge  me  to  interfere.     Strange  that  this 
should  so  long  have  escaped  me!" 

He  went  to  a  cabinet  of  carved  oak, 
dark  with  age,  and,  after  a  search  of 
some  minutes,  returned  with  a  letter  in 
his  hand. 

"Her  fears  foretold  the  truth,"  he 
said,  as  he  offered  it  for  Mrs.  Hartland's 
perusal.  It  was  the  same  he  had  re 
ceived,  ten  years  before,  from  Mrs. 
Pembroke,  at  Milan. 

«  Dear  Eliza  !"  The  tears  rose  to 
her  eyes  as  she  recognized  the  familiar 
characters.  "And  three  months  only 
before  her  death  !" 

Sydenham  paced  the  room  while  she 
read  the  letter,  and  when  she  looked  up 
he  stopped  before  her. 

"Alice,"  said  he,  "  this  must  be  looked 
to,  and  it  shall  be.  How  does  Celia 
feel  toward  Cranstoun  ?" 

"  Strangely.  She  undoubtedly  dislikes 
and  seeks  to  avoid  him.  Yet  I  think 
he  possesses  a  certain  influence  over 
her.  It  has  seemed  to  me  to  resemble 
fascination.  I  believe  the  poor  child 
hears  in  her  dreams  her  father's  death 
bed  words  about  that  man.  They  seem 
to  haunt  her." 

"There  is  something  I  do  not  quite 
understand  in  all  this.  It  certainly  is 
remarkable  that  Cranstoun  should  have 
been  tolerated — even  favored,  conciliated, 
recommended  to  his  wife  and  daughter 
— by  Frederick  Pembroke." 

"  Eliza  often  expressed  to  me  her 
aversion  to  him." 

"  She  was  right.  He  has  a  smooth, 
plausible  manner,  is  not  without  ability, 
nor,  I  believe,  without  kindly  impulses — " 

"  Your  sister  Clymer  says  that  in  her 
visits  to  the  poor  of  our  village  she  has 
several  times  found  herself  forestalled 
by  the  charity  of  Cranstoun.  His  name 
is  seldom  withheld  from  any  subscription 
for  benevolent  purposes,  and  he  has  the 
character  of  winning  to  himself  the  at 
tachment  of  those  whom  he  employs." 

"  His  character,"  said  Sydenham, 
musing,  "  has  been  to  me  a  study. 
Hannah  has  told  me  of  his  charitable 
deeds.  The  man  is  neighborly,  com 
passionate,  I  suppose — indulgent,  they 
say,  to  his  dependants.  And  yet  he  has 


66 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


no  more  idea  of  honesty  than  if  such  a 
thing  were  not  to  be  found  in  the  world. 
He  is  an  arrant  knave — not  a  violent 
one,  not  what  would  be  called  a  cruel 
one* — but  a  knave  without  a  single  grain 
of  rectitude,  without  the  first  spark  of 
honor,  and,  with  all  his  plausibility,  de 
void  of  every  principle  that  stamps  the 
gentleman." 

"  Is  it  possible  that  benevolence  and 
such  utter  lack  of  principle  can  coexist 
in  the  same  character  ?" 

»  Benevolence  is  too  strong  a  term. 
But  undoubtedly  a  rascal  may  be  kind 
to  his  neighbors  and  family,  compassion 
ate  to  suffering  that  comes  under  his 
immediate  observation,  and  disposed  to 
save  to  his  fellow-creatures  all  pain  that 
is  not  necessary  in  carrying  out  his  own 
sinister  purposes.  Cranstoun  would 
bring  suit  against  a  poor  widow — wrong 
fully  too — he  would  suffer  the  constable 
to  sell  out  the  last  article  not  exempted 
by  law,  and  then,  next  day  perhaps,  if 
he  chanced  to  see  his  victim  and  found 
her  in  want,  he  would  send  her  a  bushel 
of  meal  or  a  barrel  of  potatoes." 
«  So  bad  as  that  ?" 

"  I  have  had  little  to  do  with  him, 
thank  God  !  but  the  case  I  have  supposed 
is  not  an  imaginary  one.  You  know  the 
widow  Carson  ?" 

« Betty  Carson  ?  Certainly.  She 
washes  for  Mrs.  Mowbray — as  hard 
working  and  as  honest  a  creature  as 
lives." 

"You  may  remember  Matthew,  her 
husband — a  confirmed  sot,  who  led  her 
a  dog's  life.  Matthew  had  dealings  with 
Mr.  Cranstoun,  and,  at  one  time,  fell  in 
his  debt  some  twenty-five  dollars,  giving 
his  note  for  the  amount,  with  Betty's 
name,  by  Cranstoun's  special  request, 
as  security.  About  a  year  before  he 
died  Carson  fell  sick,  and  Mr.  Harper, 
for  whom  he  sent,  so  wrought  upon 
him  that  he  became,  for  a  time,  quite 
a  reformed  man,  went  to  work  in  good 
earnest,  and  promised  fair  to  be  a  credit 
to  his  family.  During  this  interval,  at 
his  wife's  earnest  solicitation,  he  con 
trived,  partly  with  her  assistance,  to  pay 
off  the  debt  to  Cranstoun  ;  but  either 
he  forgot  that  he  had  given  his  note,  or 


carelessly  neglected  to  take  it  up.  The 
payment  of  this  debt  poor  Betty  men 
tioned  at  the  time,  with  tears  of  gratitude 
in  her  eyes,  to  Mr.  Harper,  He  has 
not  the  slightest  doubt  it  was  paid. 
Soon  after,  Matthew  relapsed  into  worse 
than  his  former  courses,  coming  home 
late  at  night  from  the  grogshop,  break 
ing  open  his  wife's  chest,  and  taking 
thence,  to  supply  the  next  morning's 
orgies,  the  pittance  she  had  earned  by 
unremitting  toil  over  the  wash-tub,  and 
laid  by  to  procure  bread  for  her  children." 

"  Poor  Betty  !  That  was  worse  than 
I  imagined.  I  knew  Matthew  was  a 
drunkard,  but  did  not  suppose  him  a 
thief." 

«  Neither  was  he,  that  I  know  of." 

« Not  when  he  stole  his  wife's 
money  ?" 

«  I  did  not  say  he  stole  it — he  only 
took  it." 

«  Now  you  are  jesting." 

«  God  forbid  that  I  should  jest  on  so 
serious  a  subject." 

"  You  say  he  took  from  her  chest, 
without  her  permission,  the  money  she 
had  worked  for — " 

"  Yes,  money  made  painfully,  toil 
somely  by  going  out  to  wash  at  seventy- 
five  cents  a  day." 

«  And  that  was  not  stealing  ?" 

"Not  in  the  case'of  a  husband  who 
took  the  money  from  his  wife." 

«/r  that  the  law?" 

"  In  our  State,  yes." 

«  Man's  law,  then,  not  God's.' 

«  I  hope  it  will  not  long  be  man's  law 
in  any  State  of  the  Union.  Our  neigh 
bors  of  Indiana  have  got  rid  of  it ;  and 
others  are  doing  likewise.  The  rage 
for  strong  drink  seemed  to  return  upon 
Matthew  with  redoubled  force  after  his 
brief  season  of  sobriety.  One  article  of 
furniture  went  after  another  to  eke  out 
the  means  of  slaking  his  ceaseless  thirst. 
At  last — the  best  thing  he  could  do  then 
— he  died  of  delirium  tremens.'* 

«  And  Cranstoun  brought  suit  against 
Betty  for  the  debt  ?" 

"  Not  at  first.  He  did  his  best  to 
obtain  work  for  her,  and  even  set  on 
foot  a  small  subscription  for  her  benefit. 
After  a  few  months  the  chairs  and  tables 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


were  replaced,  a  list  carpet  once  more 
covered  the  cabin  floor,  the  children 
were  decently  clad  for  winter,  and  the 
widow  was  just  beginning  to  feel  that 
she  might  yet  work  her  way  through  the 
world,  thanks  to  the  timely  aid  of  Mr. 
Cranstoun  and  other  kind  people,  when 
one  day  a  writ  was  served,  at  Cranstoun's 
instance,  for  the  amount  of  Matthew's 
note  to  him,  soon  to  be  followed  by  an 
execution  of  sufficient  amount  to  sweep 
nearly  all  she  had  saved  since  her  hus 
band's  death." 

"  How  surprised  the  poor  soul  must 
have  been  !" 

"  She  was  thunderstruck — could  not 
imagine  at  first  that  it  was  anything  else 
but  a  mistake  ;  and  went  to  Cranstoun, 
who  asked  her,  very  coolly,  if  she  had 
any  receipt  to  show  of  payment  made." 

"You  had  this  from  Betty  herself?" 

"  Certainly.  I  never  take  such  things 
at  second  hand.  She  came  to  me,  in  her 
distress,  to  ask  if  there  was  no  remedy. 
I  examined  the  case  with  care,  saw  Mr. 
Harper  and  others,  satisfied  myself,  first, 
that  the  money,  beyond  a  shadow  of 
doubt,  had  been  paid,  and,  secondly,  that 
no  legal  proof  could  be  obtained  of  the 
fact." 

"  Did  you  call  upon  Mr.  Cranstoun  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  And  he  denied  the  payment  ?" 

"  No.  He  merely  requested  to  hear 
my  proofs  ;  and  the  array,  as  to  moral 
conviction,  was  perfectly  overwhelming  : 
that,  I  saw,  was  evident  even  to  him. 
He  listened  very  quietly,  and  then  asked 
me  which  among  them  I  supposed  to  be 
sufficient,  in  a  court  of  justice,  to  bar 
his  claim.  <  Do  you  deny  payment  ?'  said 
I — indignantly  I  am  sure  it  must  have 
been,  for  I  felt  my  blood  boil.  'Not  at 
all,'  he  replied,  without  the  slightest  ap 
parent  emotion  either  of  shame  or  re 
sentment.  « I  am  not  required  to  deny 
anything  of  the  sort.  It  is  Mrs.  Car 
son's  business  to  prove  payment,  and  if 
she  does  not,  I  have  a  legal  right  to  the 
debt,  and  shall  certainly  get  it.'  " 

"Atrocious  !"  said  Alice.  "And  such 
a  man  as  that  has  Mr.  Hartland's  confi 
dence  !" 

"  He  made  himself  very  useful  in  the 


way  of  business.  To  your  husband  the 
available  part  of  his  character  has  prob 
ably  shown  itself,  while  its  baser  traits 
have  been  kept  under  in  the  background." 

"  I  know  he  has  spared  no  pains  to 
win  Mr.  Hartland's  good- will  and  good 
opinion.  At  one  time — about  the  time 
this  letter  of  my  sister's  was  written — 
my  husband  seemed  to  dislike  and  mis 
trust  him.  I  think  that  was  the  chief 
reason  why  Eliza,  on  her  deathbed,  re 
quired  from  Celia  a  promise  that  she 
would  not  marry,  before  the  age  of 
twenty-three,  without  her  guardian's 
consent." 

"  Did  Celia  give  such  a  promise  ?" 

"  In  the  most  solemn  manner." 

"And  this  consent  Mr.  Hartland  now 
refuses  to  her  marriage  with  Mowbray?" 

"Absolutely.  The  poor  child  is  in  de 
spair.  I  could  not  see  these  crosses  and 
vexations  prey  upon  her  health,  as  I 
know  they  are  doing,  without  asking 
your  counsel  and  aid." 

"  Have  you  seen  much  of  Mowbray  ?" 

"  Of  late  not  much.  Hartland's  man 
ner  almost  forbids  him  the  house.  Celia 
has  been  taking  German  lessons  of  Mrs. 
Mowbray,  and  thus  has  seen  him  almost 
daily ;  but  Mr.  Hartland  has  told  her 
that  at  the  end  of  the  present  quarter- 
that  is,  next  week — these  lessons  must 
cease." 

"And  your  own  opinion  of  this  young 
man — 

"  Is  favorable.  Mowbray  is  young, 
handsome,  well-principled,  I  think  ;  and 
he  loves  Celia  devotedly.  Cannot  you 
do  something  for  her,  Mr.  Sydenham  ? 
No  one  who  has  not  lived  with  her  for 
years,  as  I  have  done,  can  tell  what  a 
dear,  good,  warm-hearted  girl  she  is. 
And  she  might  be  so  happy  !  And  she 
might  make  him  so  happy  !  Mv  very 
heart  sinks  within  me  to  think  of  their 
early  years  darkened,  saddened  thus  ; 
and  youth  that  never  returns  !" 

There  was  a  tone  in  Alice's  soft,  low 
voice  that  went  to  Sydenham's  heart. 
Her  eyes  were  fixed,  absently,  on  the 
lovely  landscape  which,  under  a  slight 
haze,  stretched  out  before  them. 

"  Do  you  know,  dear  friend,"  she 
suddenly  resumed,  "it  has  often  been  a 


63 


BETOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


puzzle  to  me  that  God's  gift  to  us  of 
His  most  beautiful  attribute  should  so 
often — oh,  so  very  often  ! — have  been 
given  in  vain,  worse  than  in  vain!" 

"It  is  one  of  the  world's  great  mys 
teries,"  said  Sydenham,  sadly — "  one  of 
many.  Who  shall  explain  to  us  why, 
just  outside  the  garden  of  our  happi 
ness,  stands  Death  to  enter — who  knows 
at  what  moment  ? — and  lay  desolate 
hopes,  affections,  enjoyments,  that  seemed 
the  direct  boon  of  Heaven  itself?" 

"  Death  !"  said  Alice,  following  her 
own  train  of  thought — how  often  we  do 
this,  unheeding  our  neighbor's  ! — "  death  ! 
Ah,  that  is  the  least  of  evils  !" 

Sydenham  looked  up  surprised.  But 
she  did  not  notice  the  look,  and  he 
merely  said  :  "  Have  you  pleaded  Celia's 
cause  with  Mr.  Hartland  ?" 

« I  d^re  not :  besides,  it  would  be 
useless." 

"And  you  wish  me  to  do  it  ?  Small 
chance  of  success  for  me  if  you  feel 
secure  of  failure." 

"  Do  not  fear  that,  Mr.  Sydenham," 
said  Alice,  eagerly.  "  He  does  not  heed 
ine  :  he  thinks  I  cannot  understand  such 
things.  But  you — oh  I  know  you  can 
do  so  much,  if  you  will.  You  will  speak 
to  him  as  her  mother's  early  friend — 
nay,  this  letter  of  Eliza's  gives  you 
authority  to  interpose." 

«  It  makes  it  my  duty,  at  all  events, 
to  leave  nothing  untried  that  may  prove 
of  service  to  her  daughter,  be  it  much  or 
little." 

"  I  knew  I  could  depend  on  you," 
said  Mrs.  Hartland,  giving  Sydenham 
her  hand.  "  When  we  were  children 
together  you  never  refused  me  anything. 
It  was  a  happy  time,  then  ;  and  you  did 
so  much  to  make  it  happy  !  If  I  come 
but  seldom  to  see  you  now,  Mr.  Syden 
ham,  and  if  I  don't  call  you  Frank,  you 
mustn't  think  I  am  ungrateful  enough  to 
forget.  Indeed,  indeed,  I  have  much  to 
do  at  home  '' — she  rose — "  and  I  have 
been  gone,  I  fear,  too  long  already.  Mr. 
Hartland  takes  it  so  much  amiss  if  I  am 
absent  when  he  returns  from  his  walk. 
Where  can  those  girls  be  ?" 

"They  must  be  close  by  ;  for  I  saw 
them,  but  a  minute  or  two  since,  return 


ing  by  the  vineyard  gate.  But  cannot 
you  leave  Celia  with  me  ?  I  ought  to 
speak  to  her,  and  perhaps  it  would  be 
better  alone.  Ah  !  here  they  come." 

"  Lela  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Hartland  as 
they  entered,  "  can  you  spare  the  time 
to  drive  me  home  ?  We  did  not  bring 
Potter :  Celia  was  my  charioteer  ;  and, 
as  your  father  has  something  to  say  to 
her  and  I  am  in  a  hurry,  she  cannot  re 
turn  with  me.  I  know  what  a  skillful 
driver  you  are,  and,  to  tell  you  the  truth, 
I  am  a  little  nervous  about  that  brown 
mare  Potter  bought  us." 

"Ah,  you  are  driving  Brunette.  I 
shall  be  delighted.  I  am  a  good  whip, 
I  think  :  am  I  not,  papa  ?" 

"  If  you  would  drive  a  little  more 
cautiously  down  this  steep  approach  of 
ours,  I  could  recommend  you  with  more 
confidence.  But  I  think  I  may  trust 
Mrs.  Hartland  with  you." 

"  Well,  that's  a  good  deal  for  papa. 
You  must  know,  Mrs.  Hartland,  he's 
afraid  of  spoiling  me  by  too  much 
praise,  and  deals  it  out  by  thimblefuls. 
But  I  find  him  out,  for  all  his  stinginess. 
He  would  not  let  me  drive  you,  Mrs. 
Hartland — you,  who  are  such  a  favorite 
with  him  —  nay,  you  needn't  look  in 
credulous  :  isn't  she,  papa  ?" 

"Certainly,  my  child,"  said  Syden 
ham,  with  a  quiet  smile — "  with  me  and 
with  all  her  friends  ;  but  you  are  de 
taining  her." 

"  Well,  would  he  entrust  you  to  me 
if  he  didn't  believe,  in  his  heart,  that 
I  drive,  as  our  old  coachman  says, 
splendidly  ?" 

"  Go  along,  chatterbox,"  said  her 
father,  patting  her  cheek  fondly  :  "  Mrs. 
Hartland's  time  is  precious." 

"  In  a  moment.  My  driving-gloves  : 
ah,  here  they  are.  Now,  Mrs.  Hart- 
land,  I'm  ready." 

Sydenham  accompanied  them  to  the 
door,  Celia  following. 

"  That  is  a  beautiful  animal,"  he  said, 
patting  its  arched  neck  as  Leoline  took 
her  place  beside  Mrs.  Hartland  and 
assumed  the  reins,  "  but  she  seems  high- 
spirited." 

»  Yes,  papa,  spirited,  but  not  vicious. 
There's  not  a  bit  of  vice  in  those  large, 


BEYOND    THE   BREAKERS. 


69 


bold,  projecting  eyes.     I  had  a  good  look 
at  her  the  other  day." 

"  Drive  cautiously,  my  child."  * 
"  I  will  indeed,  papa,"  said  Leoline, 
earnestly.  "  Do  not  fear  for  us.  By-by, 
Celia."  And,  at  a  light  touch  from  the 
whip,  the  high-bred  animal  trotted  off, 
stepping  in  a  style  that  delighted  her 
young  driver  and  would  not  have  dis 
graced  Hyde  Park. 


CHAPTER  XI. 
THE   USE   OF  A  VILLAGE   POND. 

"  MRS.  HARTLAND,"  said  Leoline  as 
they  drove  along,  "  I  wish  Celia  could 
feel  just  as  I  do." 

Mrs.  Hartland  smiled :  "  She  would 
be  the  better  of  a  little  of  your  flow  of 
spirits.  But  Celia  used  to  be  gay  and 
light-hearted  as  any  one.  It  is  only  of 
late—" 

"  Yes,  I  know :  that  is  just  what  I 
am  thinking  of.  I  did  not  mean  that  I 
wished  her  to  be  like  me — dear  Celia  is 
far  better  than  I  am,  already :  I  only 
meant  that,  at  this  particular  time,  I 
could  wish  that  she  felt  as  to  some 
things — " 

"  Some  things  !  Ah,  Celia  has  been 
opening  her  heart  to  you,  then  ?" 

«*  No.  I  never  ask  people  about  their 
hearts  :  it's  not  much  in  my  way.  What 
a  beauty  that  Brunette  is,  and  how  nice 
ly  she  goes  !  It  is  a  real  pleasure  to 
drive  her." 

"  Yes,  dear,  but  if  you  were  to  go  a 
little  slower—" 

«  So  I  will,  if  you  are  the  least  afraid." 

"  Thank  you.  It  was  not  about  Celia's 
heart,  then,  that  you  were  talking  to  me." 

"  Yes,  it  was  ;  and  perhaps  I  have 
no  business  to  say  a  word,  for  Celia  and 
I  have  not  been  touching  on  that  topic 
at  all,  to-day  ;  but  I  can't  help  hearing 
what  people,  in  a  village  like  this,  'will 
talk  about,  when  they  ought  to  let  it 
alone.  And  it  provokes  me  to  think — 
it  provokes  me  still  more  for  others  to 
think —  There,  Mrs.  Hartland,  she  shall 
go  more  slowly  :  I  didn't  intend  to  touch 
her  with  .the  whip.  Don't  look  so  ap 
prehensive.  Brunette  shall  walk  down 


this  hill  quite  quietly,  so  that  papa  shall 
say  I  am  a  good  child." 

"  You  are  a  good  child  to  think  of  my 
silly  fears.  Now  tell  me  what  it  pro 
vokes  you  to  think  and  for  others  to 
think." 

"  That  Mr.  Mowbray  should  have  the 
power  to  make  dear  Celia's  cheeks  pale 
and  her  eyes  sad  even  for  a  day.  I 
dare  say  it's  all  wrong  for  me  to  speak 
so  plainly,  but  that  is  the  honest  truth  : 
and  I  only  wish —  She  hesitated. 

"  That  Celia  felt  toward  Evelyn  Mow- 
bray  just  as  you  do." 

"  I  believe  that  was  just  what  I  was 
going  to  say,"  said  Leoline.  laughing  ; 
"and  a  foolish  enough  speech  it  would 
have  been.  But  no  :  it's  not  quite  that. 
My  anxiety,  I  believe,  went  no  farther 
than  this,  that — in  short,  that  she  should 
take  things  quietly." 

Mrs.  Hartland  looked  at  that  fair 
young  face,  unclouded  by  a  care,  and 
sighed. 

"  I  am  only  wishing,  remember,"  said 
Leoline,  apologetically,  as  she  met  Mrs. 
Hartland's  pensive  eyes.  «  I  know," 
she  resumed,  a  sudden  shade  saddening 
her  own,  "we  cannot  take  some  things 
quietly.  Poor,  dear  papa  !  what  years 
he  grieved  about  mamma !  But  that 
was  death  !" 

"The  death  of  those  we  love  is  a 
terrible  evil,  but  they  may  be  for  ever 
lost  to  us,  though  yet  alive." 

"  But  there  is  no  question  of  Celia 
losing  Mowbray  for  ever  ;  and  if  she 
did—" 

«  Well  ?" 

«  I  am  afraid  my  ideas  are  not  very 
clear  this  morning,  dear  Mrs.  Hartland. 
I  come  back  to  my  wish  that  Celia  could 
but  take  things  a  little  more  as  I  do.  I 
like  people  to  be  happy.  Not  that  I 
should  object  to  Mowbray's  looking  a 
little  forlorn  or  so  ;  but  darling  Celia, 
who  is  too  good  for  any  of  them — worth 
them  all  put  together — I  can't  bear  to 
think  that  she  should  droop  and  grieve. 
I  believe — yes,  I  fancy  that  must  be  it — 
that  my  idea  is,  men  ought  to  care  more 
for  us  than  we  do  for  them." 

There  flitted  across. Mrs.  Hartland's 
face  a  singular  expression — sad,  regret- 


BETOND  THE  BREAKERS. 


ful.  it  seemed — which  Leoline  was  trying 
to  interpret  when  it  suddenly  changed  to 
one  of  great  alarm. 

They  had  descended  more  than  two- 
thirds  of  the  hill  which  led  from  Syclen- 
ham's  house  to  the  level  on  which  the 
village  stood,  and  the  mare  had  behaved 
perfectly  well.  They  had  passed  the 
neat  paling  which  fenced  the  garden  and 
orchard,  and  now,  on  their  right,  was  a 
rivulet,  swelled  by  late  heavy  rains,  and 
which,  running  down  some  distance 
parallel  to  the  road,  crossed  it  a  few 
hundred  yards  farther  on  :  then,  passing 
to  the  left,  its  banks  fringed  with  wil 
lows,  it  bisected  and  irrigated  the  lower 
portion  of  Sydenham's  pasture-ground, 
dropping  thence  into  Kinshon  Creek  be 
low  the  fall.  On  the  left  of  the  road 
they  were  descending  was  the  post-and- 
rail  fence  which  enclosed  said  pasture,  a 
pretty,  undulating  piece  of  meadow-land, 
with  an  eastern  slope  to  the  plain  be 
low,  and  extending  some  distance  be 
yond  the  foot  of  the  hills. 

In  this  pasture  were  cattle  and  several 
horses,  among  them  a  colt,  three  years 
old  and  still  unbroken,  which,  as  soon 
as  it  saw  the  dearborn  descending  the 
hill,  raced  across  to  a  point  a  little  be 
hind  where  they  then  were,  stood  for  a 
second  or  two,  head  and  tail  erect,  snort 
ing  loudly  ;'  then,  after  trotting  slowly  a 
few  bounding  steps,  dashed  impetuously 
down  the  hill,  close  to  the  road  fence. 

Whether  it  was  that  Brunette  had 
been  purchased  by  Potter  of  some  of 
his  racing  associates,  who  had  been 
testing  her  speed  on  the  turf,  or  that  the 
high-spirited  animal  had  been  but  im 
perfectly  broken,  the  sudden  start,  as  the 
colt  shot  past  her,  was  too  great  a  trial, 
and,  in  a  moment,  she  too  was  galloping 
at  full  speed  down  the  road. 

Mrs.  Hartland's  first  impulse  was  to 
snatch  the  reins,  but  Mr.  Hartland  had 
once  checked  her  harshly  for  a  similar 
imprudence  ;  and  she  recollected  herself 
just  in  time  to  refrain  from  an  act  that 
might  have  proved  fatal  to  both. 

incline  had  not  boasted  vainly  of  her 
skill  in  driving,  and  her  self-possession 
was  admirable.  With  one  foot  planted 
against  the  dashboard,  she  gathered  up 


the  reins,  and,  though  she  could  not 
check  the  powerful  animal,  she  guided  it 
steadily  and  without  difficulty. 

In  an  instant  they  had  reached  the 
foot  of  the  hill.  Leoline  glanced  at 
Mrs.  Hartland's  agitated  countenance. 
"  It  is  nothing,"  she  said  :  "  I  can  take 
her  up,  never  fear  ;  only  pray,  pray,  sit 
still." 

They  approached  the  spot  where  the 
rivulet  already  mentioned  crossed  their 
path.  There  was  but  a  foot-bridge, 
composed  of  a  squared  log  with  a  rude 
hand-railing,  close  to  the  pasture  fence, 
for  the  stream  scarcely  ever  deepened 
so  as  to  prevent  vehicles  from  passing 
easily  ;  and  now  there  might  be  some 
eighteen  inches  of  water.  Fortunately, 
the  descent  on  each  side  was  gradual. 

Leoline  drove  the  mare  close  on  the 
left  of  the  road,  toward  the  foot-bridge  ; 
then,  as  they  reached  the  descent,  drew 
her  briskly  to  the  right,  cutting  at  an 
angle  across  the  little  stream  and  up  the 
opposite  bank,  thus  avoiding  any  dan 
gerous  shock  in  crossing.  The  rush  of 
the  water  and  the  acclivity  beyond  caused 
the  animal  somewhat  to  slacken  her  head 
long  speed,  and  Leoline  managed  to  guide 
her  safely  round  the  turn  which,  sweep 
ing  to  the  left,  brought  her  into  the  main 
avenue,  leading  directly  into  the  village, 
which  was  nearly  a  mile  distant. 

On  the  left  of  this  road,  fronted  by  a 
neatly-kept  grass-plat,  clotted  with  ever 
greens,  was  Mr.  Harper's  dwelling,  a 
pretty,  white-painted  frame  house  of  a 
single  story,  with  green  blinds,  and  a 
rustic  porch  shaded  with  woodbine  ;  and 
before  his  gate,  at  this  moment,  stood 
his  gig,  which  the  good  man  was  in  the 
act  of  entering. 

No  sooner,  however,  did  he  see  the 
plight  of  the  ladies  than  he  rushed  for 
ward,  totally  forgetful  of  the  risk  to  him 
self,  and,  in  spite  of  Leoline's  warning 
exclamation,  attempted  to  seize  the  run 
away  by  the  reins.  The  effect  was  to 
cause  the  animal  to  swerve  and  start  off 
afresh,  thus  depriving  the  girl  of  the 
mastery  which  she  had  almost  succeeded 
in  obtaining. 

But  even  at  such  disadvantage  she 
did  not  lose  heart.  It  was  market-day, 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


and  she  saw  crowds  in  the  distant  street. 
«  It  will  never  do,"  such  was  her  rapid 
thought,  "to  enter  the  village  at  this 
pace." 

Now,  about  half-way  between  Mr. 
Harper's  house  and  town,  on  the  right 
of  this  road,  was  the  village  pond,  a 
pretty  piece  of  water,  fed  by  constant 
springs,  partially  shaded  by  willows  and 
acacias,  and  presenting,  on  a  summer 
evening,  when  the  cattle,  returning  un- 
herded  from  their  forest-pasture,  stopped 
to  drink  there,  a  pleasant  scene  of  rural 
quiet  that  Cuyp  or  Gainsborough  need 
not  have  disdained  to  paint. 

It  was  a  usual  watering-place  for 
wagoners,  being  open  to  the  road,  and 
was  accessible,  by  a  short  sloping  de 
scent,  as  well  on  the  village  side  as  that 
on  which  Mr.  Hartland's  dearborn  was 
now  rapidly  approaching. 

As  they  came  in  sight  of  it  a  sudden 
thought  flashed  on  Leoline's  mind,  and 
she  acted  on  it  with  instant  promptitude. 

With  a  single  word  of  encouragement 
to  Mrs.  Hartland,  she  headed  the  mare, 
to  that  lady's  consternation,  right  for 
the  centre  of  the  pond.  Down  the  slope 
they  went,  and  into  the  water,  with  a 
rush  that  dashed  it  over  the  animal's 
back  and  sprinkled  the  ladies  pretty 
heavily.  But  Leoline,  in  that  moment 
of  decision,  had  calculated  well.  She 
drew  the  mare  sharply  to  the  left.  The 
bottom  of  the  pond  was  soft  sand,  the 
wheels  dragged  through  it  heavily,  and 
before  they  had  completed  a  semi-circular 
sweep  toward  the  opposite  landing-place, 
the  panting  horse  was  fairly  brought  to 
a  stand-still. 

"  I  could  not  help  it,  dear  Mrs.  Hart- 
land,"  said  Leoline,  shaking  the  large 
drops  from  her  dress  :  « I  was  so  much 
afraid  of  running  over  some  of  the  chil 
dren  in  that  crowded  street.  I  hope 
you  are  not  very  wet.  Indeed  I  could 
not  help  it." 

"  Wet,  dear  Lela  !  How  can  you  talk 
or  think  of  such  a  trifle  when  nothing 
but  your  courage  has  saved  us  perhaps 
from  death  !  Oh  let  us  get  out !" 

"What!  Into  the  water?  That 
would  be  a  craziness  !  And  let  Bru 
nette  get  home  her  own  way,  break  the 


dearborn  to  pieces  and  frighten  your 
household  into  fits  ?  Oh  fie,  Mrs.  Hart- 
land  !  I  was  going  to  return  you  the 
compliment  about  courage,  but  now 
you've  spoilt  it  all." 

«  Leoline,  if  I  could  but  feel  and  act 
like  you  !  I  owe  to  you  my  life." 

"  It  was  nothing,  Mrs.  Hartland.  If 
the  mare  had  been  vicious  and  had 
kicked,  ah,  then  it  would  have  been 
serious.  A  gentleman  we  knew  in  Eng 
land  had  his  knee  lamed  for  life  in  that 
way;  and  I've  been  rather  nervous 
about  it,  myself,  ever  since.  But  Bru 
nette  ran  beautifully.  Ah,  good  mare  ! 
See,  she  drinks  :  she  is  conquered  now. 
We  shall  get  home  with  her  quite  safely." 

«  How  skillfully  you  drove  over  that 
brook  in  the  road !  I  scarcely  felt  a 
jolt." 

«  Yes  :  I  flatter  myself  that  was  not 
badly  done.  If  you  are  going  fast, 
never  drive  at  right  angles,  but  always 
slantingly,  across  a  drain.  'II  faut 
couper  les  ruisseaux,'  as  good  Monsieur 
Meyrac  once  told  me.  Now,  Bru 
nette,  you  are  too  hot  to  drink  much. 
Come  !" 

And  the  animal  suffered  itself  to  be 
driven,  quietly  enough,  out  into  the  main 
road. 

"  Ah,  here  is  Mr.  Harper  in  his  gig, 
come  to  look  after  the  runaway  damsels. 
Dear  old  man  !  He  nearly  upset  us,  but 
his  kindness  and  courage  are  not  the 
less  for  that." 

«  Are  you  safe  ?"  said  Mr.  Harper. 

"Perfectly,"  said  Mrs.  Hartland, 
« thanks  to  this  noble  girl !  But  how 
could  you  think  of  risking  your  life  for 
us,  as  you  did  ?" 

«  The  truth  is,  I  didn't  think  of  it,  or 
I  might  have  done  better.  Zeal  without 
knowledge  was  mine.  But  isn't  that 
your  man  Potter  coming  to  us  ?  And, 
though  Miss  Leoline  drives  admirably, 
had  she  not  better  resign  the  reins  for 
to-day  ?" 

«  On  one  condition,  Mr.  Harper,"  said 
Leoline—"  that  you  will  do  me  a  great 
favor.  I  am  so  much  afraid  of  dear 
papa  hearing  of  this  runaway  scrape  of 
ours  before  he  knows  we  are  safe.  If 
you  are  not  too  busy,  and  Mrs.  Hartland 


BETOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


will  spare  me,  would  you  mind  setting  me 
down  at  our  lower  orchard  gate  ?" 

"  Most  willingly  shall  it  be  done,  my 
dear  young  lady ;  and  you  shall  go  safe 
ly,  if  not  swiftly.  My  good  old  Trooper 
won't  bear  comparison  with  that  brown 
beauty  of  Mrs.  Hartland's  ;  but  he  is  a 
faithful  servant,  that  has  not  failed  me 
in  fifteen  years." 


"Yes,  dear  Lela,"  said  Mrs.  Hartland, 
"  you  do  quite  right  to  carry  the  first 
news  to  your  father.  God  bless  you, 
my  child  !" 

And  with  looks  of  love  and  admira 
tion,  Alice's  eyes,  fixed  on  Leoline,  long 
followed  Mr.  Harper's  homely  equipage 
ere  she  bade  Potter  drive  carefully 
home. 


PART     IV. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE    ADVANTAGES    OF    THE    NINETEENTH 
CENTURY. 

O  YDENHAM  and  Celia  had  returned 
v3  to  the  parlor.  As  they  entered,  a 
look  of  consciousness  and  painful  em 
barrassment  stole  over  the  girl's  anxious 
face. 

"  You  have  a  dear  and  excellent  friend 
in  your  good  aunt,"  said  Sydenham. 

"  No  mother  could  be  kinder,"  she  re 
plied,  warmly.  "  I  call  her  mother,  and 
well  she  deserves  it  from  me.  What 
should  I  do  now,  if  it  were  not  for 
her  ?" 

"  Are  you  so  hard  bestead  ?" 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Sydenham,"  said  Celia, 
the  tears  glistening  in  her  eyes,  "  I  am 
very  unhappy  !" 

"  You  are  very  cold,  poor  child !"  said 
Sydenham,  taking  her  hand — "  absolute 
ly  chilled  through.  Come  to  the  fire  and 
let  us  talk  it  over." 

Now  this  speech  did  not  please  Celia 
at  all.  If  the  tone  and  the  look  had  not 
been  so  kind,  it  would  have  offended 
her  seriously.  As  it  was,  it  effectually 
arrested  her  tears. 

Sydenham  seated  her  comfortably  in  a 
huge  arm-chair  by  the  fire,  and  stood 
looking  at  her.  "  What  is  the  matter  ?" 
he  asked,  after  a  pause. 

Celia  remained  silent. 


«  Cannot  you  trust  me  with  the  cause 
of  your  troubles  ?  Cannot  you  talk  to  me 
as  you  would  to  a  father  ?" 

"  No,  sir." 

«  No  ?" 

"  No  ;  and  I  don't  wish  you  to  call  me 
<  poor  child.'  " 

"  Nor  to  tell  you  you  have  not  been 
behaving  well  ?" 

"  Not  in  that  tone.' 

«  How  old  are  you,  Celia  ?" 

"  I  shall  be  twenty  next  week — in  ten 
days  ;  and  that  is  altogether  too  old  to  be 
a  daughter  of  yours." 

Sydenham  smiled,  well  pleased : 
"  What !  Three  whole  years  older  than 
Lela  ?" 

"  Don't  let  us  talk  of  that.  I  am 
quite  willing  to  trust  you,  Mr.  Syden 
ham.  I  will  do  as  my  aunt  advised  me 
and  tell  you  all  my  difficulties  ;  only — " 

"  Well,  only  what  ?" 

"  You  never  seemed  to  me  the  least 
like  a  father,  and  I  am  sure  you  never 
will." 

Sydenham,  who  had  remained  stand 
ing  beside  Celia's  chair,  put  back  from 
her  forehead  a  few  stray  hairs  that  had 
been  displaced  by  her  bonnet,  passed 
his  hand  gently  over  the  soft,  rich,  wavy 
tresses  and  touched  the  fair  brow  with  a 
light  kiss.  «  I  suppose,  then,  I  must  be 
satisfied  with  the  authority  of  an  elder 
73 


74 


BETOND    THE   BREAKERS. 


brother,"  said  he,  as  he  drew  a  chair  be 
side  her. 

"  Talk  to  me  as  your  sister,"  said 
Celia,  looking  up  well  pleased,  "  not  as 
if  you  were  soothing  a  spoilt  child,  and 
you  may  tell  me  I  have  been  behaving 
badly,  or  anything  else  you  please." 

«  You  have  been  behaving  badly." 

"  So  you  told  me  already." 

"  You  have  been  doing  what  many 
older  and  wiser  people  than  you  do  every 
day — borrowing  sorrow,  causelessly,  of 
the  future  ;  vexing  yourself — I  will  not 
say  for  nothing,  but  for  nothing  that 
ought  to  make  my  sister  Celia's  cheek 
look  pale  and  her  step  grow  languid." 

"  What  did  my  aunt  tell  you  ?" 

"That  Mr.  Hartland  disapproved  the 
choice  you  had  made  ;  and  that,  unless 
he  changed  his  mind,  or  you  broke  a 
solemn  promise  made  to  your  mother, 
you  cannot  marry  Mr.  Mowbray — let  me 
see  ! — no,  not  for  three  whole  years  and 
ten  days." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Sydenham,  surely  you  don't 
think—" 

"  No  ;  I  don't  think  it  ever  presented 
itself  to  you  before  exactly  in  that  plain, 
matter-of-fact  point  of  view,  else  I  might 
not  have  had  to  scold  you  for  these  pale 
cheeks.  You  felt  that  Mr.  Hartland 
could  not  understand  you,  did  not  sym 
pathize  with  you — that  he  was  unjustly 
prejudiced  against  Mowbray,  and  was 
cruelly  outraging  your  affections.  It 
brought  to  your  mind  the  various  piteous 
cases  of  thwarted  love  and  jailer  guard 
ians  which  you  have  pored  over  in  nov 
els — you  thought  yourself  very  ill-used, 
and  persuaded  yourself  that  you  were 
very  unhappy." 

"Is  that  the  way  in  which  brothers 
talk  to  sisters  ?" 

«  If  they  care  more  about  doing  them 
service  than  pleasing  them  for  the  mo 
ment,  yes,  it  is." 

"  Is  it  not  wrong  in  a  guardian  to  flout 
the  suit  of  a  good,  estimable  young  man 
merely  because  he  is  not  rich,  and  to  in 
sist  on  his  ward  marrying  another,  whom 
she  fears  and  dislikes  ?" 

"  Both  are  very  wrong." 

"  My  uncle  will  never  forgive  me  if  I 
marry  Evelyn.  It  is  not  a  question  of 


now  or  three  years  hence.  Thrice  three 
years  would  not  change — no,  not  a  hair's 
breadth — his  rigid  prejudice.  He  has 
set  his  heart  on  my  marrying  Mr.  Cran- 
stoun,  and  he  will  never  cease  urging  it 
upon  me  to  receive  the  addresses  of  that 
man— never,  never  !  Oh,  Mr.  Syden 
ham,  how  can  I  help  being  unhappy, 
when  I  see  nothing  before  me  but  endless 
quarrels,  a  struggle  between  myself — 
dependent,  inexperienced — and  a  guard 
ian,  estimable  to  be  sure,  to  whom  I  owe 
much,  who  wishes  me  well,  I  dare  say, 
but  who  is  bent  upon  what  would  make 
me  miserable,  wretched  for  life  ?  And 
even  that  is  not  all." 

"  What  more  ?" 

"  My  father,  during  his  lifetime,  seem 
ed  strangely  bound  to  Mr.  Cranstoun, 
and  on  his  deathbed  urged  it  upon 
me,  in  terms  the  most  earnest,  always 
to  look  upon  him  as  a  friend,  and 
to  abstain  from  whatever  might  offend 
him.  And  I  myself  can  scarcely  get  rid 
of  the  idea  that  he  has  power  over  me. 
He  seems,  when  he  speaks  to  me  and 
looks  at  me,  to  feel  that  he  has." 

"  Is  that  all  ? 

"  Is  it  not  enough  ?" 

"  Enough  to  demand  thought  and  call 
for  prudence,  but  not  enough — except  in 
some  romantic  love-tale,  in  which  the 
heroine  may  resort  to  every  means  of 
escape  from  difficulties  except  common 
sense  —  very  surely  not  enough  to  be 
just  cause  for  serious  unhappiness  ;  far 
less  to  be  sufficient  reason  why  the  ha 
rassed  mind  should  prey,  as  yours  has 
been  preying,  on  the  body." 

"  I  am  not  ill,  though  my  aunt  'would 
send  for  Dr.  Meyrac  yesterday." 

"  You  are  not  ill,  but,  if  you  go  on  in 
this  way,  you  very  soon  will  be.  I  have 
more  faith  in  Meyrac  than,  report  says, 
he  has  in  his  brother  Galens  :  you  have 
heard  the  story  ?" 

"Yesterday,  from  his  own  lips.  I  have 
not  laughed  as  heartily  for  a  month." 

"  He  showed  his  sense  by  getting  you 
to  laugh,  and  Meyrac  is  shrewd  and  sen 
sible  ;  but  I  hope  to  do  you  more  good 
than  he  and  all  his  brethren,  backed 
with  every  nostrum  in  their  pharma 
copoeia." 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


75 


«  What  if  I  have  no  faith  ?  Will  not 
the  charm  lose  Us  virtue  ?" 

"You  shall  not  choose  but  believe. 
Now,  my  good,  persecuted,  affrighted 
little  friend,  I  pray  you  to  answer  me  a 
few  plain  questions." 

"  That  is  the  empiric's  privilege — 
well  ?" 

"  You  are  getting  sharp.  I  have  more 
and  more  hopes  of  you.  But  do  you 
know  what  empiric  means  ?" 

"Ah  !  the  word  touches  Dr.  Syden- 
ham's  professional  pride  ?" 

"  On  the  contrary,  it  suits  Dr.  Syden- 
ham,  and  he  adopts  it.  EMPIRIC — one 
who  practices  from  personal  experience 
only,  not  from  theory ;  one  who  tries 
experiments." 

"And  you  intend  to  experiment  upon 
me  ?" 

"  Precisely,  relying  for  success  on  my 
own  experience." 

"  Pray  proceed,  then.  I  will  answer 
truly,  on  my  conscience,  as  to  all  the 
symptoms." 

"  Do  you  remember  who  was  Bacchus' 
lieutenant-general  in  his  expedition  into 
India?" 

"  You  begin  sufficiently  far  off,  so  as 
not  to  alarm  your  patient,"  said  Celia, 
laughing. 

"  Nay,  I  approach  the  principal  symp 
tom.  Have  patience." 

"  But  my  mythology  is  rather  rusty. 
Bacchus'  lieutenant-general  ?  I  have 
forgotten." 

"It  was  Pan.  Bacchus  being  sur-' 
rounded  in  a  valley  by  a  vastly  superior 
force,  the  shepherd-god  recommended 
that  the  men,  at  night,  should  give  a 
general  shout,  which  so  surprised  and 
terrified  the  opposite  force  that  they  in 
continently  forsook  their  camp,  took  to 
flight  and  left  to  Bacchus  a  bloodless 
victory.  Hence,  as  you  may  remember, 
any  sudden  terror,  without  a  cause,  is 
usually  called  a  panic  terror." 

"  Ah,  one  cannot  accuse  you  of  flat 
tery,  Mr.  Sydenham,  nor  deny  that  you 
speak  plainly,  if  it  be  in  parable.  But 
your  diagnosis  is  faulty.  I  have  not, 
that  I  know  of,  been  seized  with  any 
sudden  terror." 

"  No,  in  your  case   the    disease   as 


sumes  its  chronic  form.  So  much  the 
worse." 

"  Let  us  speak  seriously,  Mr.  Syden 
ham.  I  am  hardly  able,  to-day,  to  keep 
up  the  light  shuttlecock  of  jest." 

"  With  all  my  heart.  Let  me  ask  you 
a  serious  question,  then  :  Ar.e  you  not 
afraid  of  your  guardian  ?" 

"  He  is  so  stern  and  severe." 

"What  are  you  afraid  of?  Not  a 
scolding  ?" 

"  Mr.  Hartland  does  not  scold.  But 
he  talks  just  as  if  everybody  must  do 
exactly  what  he  requires  of  them,  and 
especially  a  young  person  like  me.  My 
aunt  always  obeys  him,  without  question 
or  delay.  He  makes  everybody  obey 
him  who  comes  near  him." 

"And  suppose  you  were  not  to  obey 
him — what  then  ?" 

"  Oh,  it  would  be  terrible  !  You  have 
no  idea  of  his  look  and  tone." 

"  Stern  looks  and  severe  tones  are 
disagreeable,  no  doubt :  I  am  very 
sensitive  to  their  influence,  myself;  but 
the  most  favored  of  us  cannot  pass 
through  this  world  without  encountering 
a  few  disagreeables.  Beyond  these  for 
midable  looks  and  tones,  what  else  do 
you  fear  from  your  uncle  ?  What  other 
danger  impends  ?" 

"  Indeed  I  scarcely  know.  If  I  were 
to  defy  his  will,  I  cannot  tell  to  what 
lengths"  he  might  go.  Oh,  it  would  be 
dreadful !" 

"  Let  us  see.  In  the  first  place,  defy 
implies  a  challenge,  provocation,  a  call 
ing  out  to  a  contest.  I  recommend  only 
gentle  firmness.  You  cannot  tell  what 
he  might  do." 

"  It  seems  to  me  that,  if  he  were  tho 
roughly  roused,  he  might  do  anything." 

"Just  so — anything.  I  dare  say  those 
Indian  troops  whom  Pan  so  scared  with 
a  shout  had  ideas  of  danger  about  as 
definite  as  you  seem  to  have.  Let  us 
analyze  this  'anything'  of  yours.  It 
does  not  include  a  whipping,  I  suppose?" 

"  Mr.  Sydenham  !"  said  Celia,  rising. 
Her  indignation  became  her  well.  Syd 
enham  could  not  help  admiring  the  glow 
ing  cheeks,  but  he  proceeded  without 
change  of  tone  : 

"Ah,  this  will  never  do.     I  undertake 


76 


BEYOND    THE   BREAKERS. 


no  cure  if  my  patient  starts  up  and  runs 
away  from  my  questions.  Sit  down. 
Don't  you  see  that  we  must  proceed 
in  the  matter  regularly  if  we  are  to 
reach  any  practical  conclusion  ?  And 
let  me  tell  you,  ladye  fair,  that  the  time 
has  been  when  your  'anything'  included 
consequences  that  might  appall  the  bold 
est.  The  Romans  had  the  power  of  life 
and  death  over  their  offspring.  And  did 
they  spare  sex  or  age  ?  There  was 
Boadicea.  Do  you  remember  ? — 

1  When  the  British  warrior-queen, 
Bleeding  from  the  Roman  rods, 
Sought,  with  an  indignant  mien, 
Counsel  of  her  country's  gods.' 

Those  must  have  been  serious  times  for 
disobedient  wards.  Don't  you  think  so, 
Celia  ?" 

«  I  was  foolish.  But  you  have  such 
a  strange  way  of  putting  things,  Mr. 
Sydenham.  I  see  that  my  « anything' 
has  a  restricted  meaning.  And  you 
shall  have  an  answer  to  your  question. 
I  am  not  at  all  afraid  of  sharing  the  fate 
of  poor  Boadicea." 

"  Good  !  Now  we  shall  get  on.  I 
don't  think  my  friend  Hartland  would 
be  likely  to  lock  you  up  in  some  upper 
chamber  and  starve  you  into  compliance, 
or  feed  you  there  on  bread  and  water 
till  you  promised  to  be  a  good  girl  and 
to  say  yes  when  he  bade  you." 

"  Mr.  Hartland  is  despotic  enough, 
but  he  is  a  gentleman — " 

"  Of  the  nineteenth  century :  that  is 
the  best  part  of  it :  those  picturesque 
gentlemen  of  the  good  olden-time  were 
not  much  to  be  trusted  in  such  matters. 
And  Hartland  does  not  live  in  a  remote 
castle,  in  some  wild  forest,  with  moat 
and  donjon  keep,  with  subterranean  dun 
geons  for  prisoners  and  lone  turret- 
chambers  for  refractory  damoyseles.  His 
house,  without  a  single  loophole  or  even 
window-grating,  is  situated  in  a  quiet, 
unfortified,  civilized  village,  in  a  republi 
can  country:  a  great  convenience,  all 
this,  in  your  case,  depend  upon  it. 
Bricks  and  mortar  have  a  good  deal  to 
do  with  civilization  and  morality.  An 
iron  will  in  a  feudal  fortress,  and  an  iron 
will  in  that  pretty,  comfortable  two-story 
dwelling-house  of  your  uncle's,  with  noth 


ing  worse  than  its  neatly-painted  green 
shutters  to  aid  in  a  scheme  of  incarcera 
tion,  are  two  very  different  things." 

"  I  admit  that  I  run  no  risk  of  hope 
less  captivity." 

"  Here,  you  see,  is  another  point  settled. 
Your  person  and  your  liberty  aje  in  no 
danger.  One  thing  more.  Can  your 
guardian  disinherit  you  if  you  use  your 
own  eyes,  instead  of  his,  in  selecting  a 
husband  ?" 

"  Not  that  I  know  of." 

"  Of  course  he  cannot.  You  are  your 
mother's  sole  heir.  Just  at  present  you 
are  a  minor,  and  he  might,  perhaps,  cur 
tail  your  allowance.  But  in  another 
year  and  a  few  days  he  will  be  obliged 
to  account  to  you  for  all  your  property  : 
he  will  do  so  faithfully — Hartland  is  tho* 
roughly  upright — and  will  place  it  un 
conditionally  in  your  hands.  You  will, 
thenceforth,  have  the  entire  control  of 
forty  thousand  dollars,  and  will  be  free 
to  select  your  own  residence,  choose  your 
own  friends,  follow  out  your  own  mode 
of  life.  There  is  a  great  deal  of  inde 
pendence,  especially  here  in  a  Western 
village,  in  forty  thousand  dollars." 

"  I  confess  all  this  did  not  occur  to 
me." 

"  Of  course  not.  You  do  not  know 
half  your  own  power  and  privileges. 
You  have  a  dash  of  romance  about  you, 
Celia.  I  like  you  all  the  better  for  that : 
I  was  seriously  touched  with  it,  in 
younger  days,  myself,  and  am  not  tho 
roughly  cured  yet.  But  romantic  people 
never  do  see  what  lies  in  the  plain  path 
straight  before  them.  Their  eyes  wan 
der  up  to  the  heavens  and  off  to  the  right 
and  left — to  those  regions  of  earth  to 
which  distance  lends  enchantment.  No 
wonder  they  are  sometimes  grievously 
puzzled  to  thread  their  way." 

"  Unless  they  find  some  kind  elder 
brother  on  the  road,  who  has  still  ro 
mance  enough  to  sympathize  with  them, 
and  not  so  much  as  to  disqualify  him  for 
a  guide,"  said  Celia,  looking  up  with  a 
grateful  expression  to  Sydenham. 

His  ideas  seemed  disarranged  just  foi 
a  moment :  then  he  said  quietly :  «  I  dara 
say  it  was  well  your  aunt  Alice  thought 
of  me.  But  we  are  wandering  from  th* 


BETOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


77 


point.  How  far  had  we  narrowed  down 
your  'anything?'  " 

"  I  believe  I  had  to  admit  that  it  did 
not  touch  life,  limb,  liberty,  property." 

"  Very  well.  You  are  sure  your  heart 
has  made  a  choice  ?" 

A  bright  blush  for  answer. 

«  I  see  it  has.  To  that  choice  Mr. 
Hartland  says  '  No,'  for  the  present  at 
least,  and  may  very  possibly  persist  in 
saying  <  No  '  as  long  as  he  lives.  You 
have  resolved  not  to  marry  without  his 
consent  till  you  are  twenty-three — " 

"  Most  positively.  A  violation  of  a 
promise  solemnly  made  to  my  mother 
on  her  deathbed  would  haunt  me  to  my 
own  dying  day." 

"  You  are  quite  right.  Then,  to  re 
turn  to  the  point  from  which  we  started, 
it  appears,  in  the  first  place,  that  your 
guardian  may  postpone  your  marriage 
for  three  years  and  ten  days." 

"And  meanwhile  ?" 

"  That  is  my  secondly.  Meanwhile, 
Mr.  Hartland  may  look  sternly,  speak 
severely — " 

«  And  that  is  so  hard  to  bear  !" 

"It  is  disagreeable,  very,  to  come  into 
daily  contact  with  ill-will  or  anger.  I 
once  gave  a  man  up  a  most  just  debt 
that  could  be  obtained  by  litigation,  and 
in  no  other  way,  because  I  had  to  pass 
his  door  each  morning,  and  became  im 
patient  of  being  reminded,  once  in  every 
twenty-four  hours,  that  I  had  a  quarrel 
with  him." 

"  And  I  should  have  done  just  so." 

«  And  you  might  have  afforded  to  pur 
chase  exemption  from  a  daily-recurring 
annoyance  at  a  cost  of  fifty  dollars,  as  I 
did.  But  what  is  the  price  of  your 
uncle's  good-will  ?  Is  it  worth  while, 
do  you  think,  to  marry  Cranstoun  in 
order  to  get  it  ?" 

"  God  forbid  !     I  would  rather  die." 

"  The  price,  you  see,  is  too  high. 
You  have  quite  decided  not  to  purchase. 
You  cannot  afford  to  buy  off  your  uncle's 
harsh  words  and  angry  looks  at  the  rate 
of  a  lifetime's  misery.  It  is  like  any 
other  luxury  which  one's  purse  is  not 
heavy  enough  to  compass.  I  should 
very  much  like,  in  addition  to  what  works 
of  art  I  have,  to  possess  one  or  two  of 


j  Canova's  statues  for  my  entrance-hall, 
and  a  few  of  my  favorite  Murillo's  best 
paintings  to  adorn  these  walls.  But, 
seeing  that  my  fortune  is  inadequate  to 
such  expensive  indulgences,  I  do  not  set 
my  heart  upon  them,  and  I  cease  to  repine 
that  they  are  beyond  my  reach." 

'•  And  you  think  I  ought  not  to  set  my 
heart  on  my  uncle's  good-will  and  kind 
looks  ?" 

"  Not  if  he  sets  upon  these  a  price 
unreasonable,  extravagant,  and  which  it 
would  bankrupt  your  happiness  to  pay. 
Offer  him  freely,  generously,  what  you 
really  can  afford — the  little  attentions  to 
his  personal  comforts  which  men  at  his 
age  value  ;  cheerful  obedience  in  minor 
matters,  though  it  involve  sacrifice  of 
your  taste  and  inclinations  ;  the  respect 
ful  fulfillment  of  every  duty  which  a  guard 
ian,  standing  for  the  time  in  a  fathers 
place,  can  reasonably  exact  or  expect  of 
his  ward.  Remind  him  that  you  are 
young,  are  in  no  haste  to  marry,  and 
that  all  vou  ask  is,  not  to  have  a  match 
forced  upon  you  against  your  will." 

"  That  is  it,  exactly — that  is  all  I  ask. 
If  it  were  not  for  this  Cranstoun — 

"  Cranstoun  seems  to  be  the  bete  noire 
of  your  dreams.  And,  to  be  right  hon 
est  with  you,  Celia,  I  think*  him  a  dan 
gerous  man." 

"  Ah,  there  it  is  !  You  have  left  him 
out  of  view  altogether.  I  do  think  ther^e 
is  nothing  he  might  not  do." 

"  Pan's  midnight  shout  again,  Celia. 
Don't  desert  the  camp  and  leave  its 
spoils  to  the  enemy  until  you  have  as 
certained  his  force.  'Nothing  he  might 
not  do  !'  Do  you  think,  for  example, 
that  he  might  hire  three  or  four  ruffian- 
looking  men,  their  faces  covered  with 
crape ;  have  a  carriage-and-four  close 
by  ;  set  upon  you  some  day  when  you 
were  out  botanizing  in  these  woods ; 
cause  you  to  be  gagged  after  the  most 
romance-approved  fashion ;  spirit  you 
off  to  some  out-of-the-way,  mysterious, 
unknown  region  ;  and  there,  aided  by 
a  ghastly  monk  or  chaplain,  compel 
you,  at  the  dagger's  point,  to  marry 
him  ?" 

"  You  are  really  too  bad,  Mr.  Syden- 
ham,"  said  Celia,  laughing. 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


"  These  mysterious  impending  dan 
gers,  you  observe,  will  not  stand  ques 
tion.  They  vanish  as  you  approach  them. 
Tney  are  ghosts  from  a  bygone  age. 
It  is  nearly  seven  hundred  years  since 
Dermot  Macmorrough  carried  off,  from 
her  bog-fenced  castle,  the  Princess  Do- 
vergilda.  His  exploit,  then  deemed  a 
proof  of  gallantry  and  spirit,  would  now 
be  rewarded,  if  in  our  day  it  were  prac 
ticable  at  all,  with  ignominy  and  the 
State  prison.  Forcible  abduction  is, 
among  us,  an  almost  impossible  felony." 

"  Certainly  :  I  am  not  afraid  of  being 
stolen  away." 

"Very  well.  Can  they  marry  you 
here,  to  this  Cranstoun,  against  your 
consent  ?  Not  very  readily,  I  should 
think.  When  Mr.  Harper,  or  some 
other  clergyman,  asks  you,  <  Do  you 
take  this  man  for  your  husband  ?'  you 
must  take  care  not  to  say  « Yes.'  That 
is  all." 

Celia  smiled :  "  It  is  a  comfort  to  think 
one  has  the  privilege  of  dying  an  old 
maid  if  one  chooses." 

"It  is  a  privilege,  though  you  may 
not  think  so — one  which  women  hare 
not  always  enjoyed.  You  possess  lands 
and  houses  ;  and  if  you  had  lived  in 
England  in,  the  early  days  of  King 
John's  reign,  you  might  have  been  forced 
to  marry,  whether  you  chose  it  or  not, 
so  that  your  husband  might  render,  in 
person,  at  the  head  of  a  suitable  number 
of  armed  vassals,  that  military  service 
to  his  suzerain  which,  by  feudal  usage, 
attached  to  the  ownership  of  land." 

"  Have  such  things  been  ?" 

"  Undoubtedly.  War,  in  those  days, 
was  more  important  than  happiness. 
The  right  to  compel  such  marriages  was 
an  ancient  prerogative,  though  afterward 
abolished  by  Magna  Charta.  See  what 
you  have  escaped  !  Then,  again,  you 
have  no  father  to  go  down  upon  his 
knees  before  you,  as  selfish  scoundrels 
of  fathers  do  in  silly  novels,  informing 
you  that  he  has  been  committing  some 
murder  or  other  infamous  crime,  before 
you  were  born  perhaps — that  his  life,  or 
honor,  is  at  the  rftercy  of  some  rascally 
accomplice,  and  that  you,  by  way  of 
mending  matters,  must,  like  a  dutiful 


child,  swear  at  the  altar  to  honor  and 
obey  this  same  rascally  accomplice  ;  thus 
condemning  to  a  penalty  worse  than 
death  a  young,  innocent  victim,  to  whom 
he,  the  while,  is  not  ashamed  to  profess 
unbounded  love." 

Sydenham  rose  and  paced  the  room, 
as  was  his  habit  when  excited ;  and 
Celia  sat  gazing  absently  on  the  dying 
embers  for  several  minutes. 

"  I  see,"  she  said  at  last,  «  how  reason 
able  all  you  say  is.  Mr.  Hartland's  con 
trol  over  me  is  for  a  limited  time  only, 
and  meanwhile  I  may  conciliate  where  I 
cannot  obey  him.  But,  Mr.  Sydenham — 
if  I  have  not  already  tired  you — " 

"  Celia,"  said  Sydenham,  coming  to 
her  side,  "your  mother  was  an  early 
playmate  and  valued  friend  of  mine; 
and,  if  she  had  not  been,  you  are  a  dear, 
good  girl,  whom  I  like  for  your  own 
sake.  Are  you  in  the  habit  of  getting 
tired  when  those  you  love  tell  you  of 
their  troubles  and  ask  your  advice  ?" 

"  Nobody  ever  asked  my  advice,"  said 
Celia,  smiling.  "But  I  remember  that 
Franklin,  when  some  one  whom  he  had 
relieved  expressed  a  fear  that  he  might 
never  be  able  to  return  the  obligation, 
told  him  to  pass  it  round  when  he  found 
a  suffering  brother.  And  I,  when  I  am 
an  old  lady  with  gray  hair  and  a  plain 
cap,  looking  venerable,  and  when  young 
girls  think  I  am  very  wise  and  come  to 
consult  me  about  their  troubles,  shall 
not  forget  my  debt.  I  will  listen  to 
them — oh,  so  patiently  ! — as  you  have 
been  listening  to  me ;  tell  them  that 
sharp  words,  after  all,  are  not  a  killing 
matter ;  that  nobody  is  likely  to  lock 
them  up  and  feed  them  on  bread  and 
water,  or  to  run  away  with  them  against 
their  will ;  and  that,  as  long  as  they 
keep  saying  <No,'  they  can't  be  married." 

"Admirable!  I  only  hope  you  will 
find  pupils  who  will  learn  their  lesson 
half  as  aptly  as  mine  has  done.  But 
there  was  something  else." 

"Ah,  yes,"  said  Celia,  the  playful  mood 
fading  away,  "  there  is  one  thing  more. 
I  have  no  father,  as  you  have  reminded 
me,  exposed  to  suffering  which  a  hateful 
marriage  might  avert.  But  is  it  not 
possible  that  Mr.  Cranstoun  may  be  in 


BETOND  THE  BREAKERS. 


79 


possession  of  some  important  secret, 
perhaps  connected  with  my  father's  past 
life,  which  he  could  still  use  ?" 

«  Did  he  ever  say  as  much  to  you  ?" 

"  Not  in  so  many  words.  But  he  has 
left  that  impression  on  my  mind  by  cer 
tain  vague  expressions  dropped  from 
time  to  time,  and  which  I  could  not 
help  coupling  with  my  father's  dying 
request  not  to  do  anything  to  irritate 
this  man." 

"  You  do  well  to  tell  me  all  this." 

"Ah,  even  you  are  alarmed  now," 
said  Celia,  turning  very  pale. 

"  Indeed,  no,"  said  Sydenham,  smil 
ing.  "It  is  a  matter  worth  looking  at 
and  thinking  over,  but  I  feel  no  alarm 
about  it.  Cranstoun  was  acquainted 
(intimately,  it  would  seem)  with  your 
father  in  early  life.  It  is  possible  that 
he  may  possess,  or  think  he  possesses, 
the  clue  to  some  undivulged  transac 
tions,  which  it  might  have  been  un 
pleasant  to  your  father — might  be  pain 
ful  to  you,  perhaps  —  to  have  brought 
to  light.  But  if  he  has  any  such  know 
ledge,  and  hopes  to  turn  it  to  profit,  I 
don't  very  well  see  why  he  should  not 
have  sought,  ere  this,  to  do  so." 

"  He  may,  at  this  very  time,  be  medi 
tating  such  an  attempt." 

«  Possibly.  Yet  I  cannot  believe  he 
has  much  in  his  power.  I  was  not  in 
timately  acquainted  with  your  father,  but 
I  believe  him  to  have  been  a  man  of 
honorable,  gentlemanly  sentiments — im 
pulsive  at  times,  somewhat  infirm  of 
purpose,  perhaps,  but  incapable  of  any 
thing  that  would  disgrace  his  memory, 
or  which,  if  known,  ought  seriously  to 
pain  his  child." 

"  Oh,  I  am  sure  of  it !"  said  Celia, 
eagerly. 

"  But,  Celia,  remember  this,"  said 
Sydenham — "that  even  if  we  are  both 
mistaken — even  if  this  fellow  Cranstoun 
possesses,  and  should  hereafter  disclose, 
matters  redounding  to  your  father's  dis 
credit,  disgrace  even— nay,  dear  child, 
you  mustn't  look  as  if  all  this  had  al 
ready  taken  place :  I  don't  believe  a 
word  of  it :  I  am  putting  a  mere  possi 
ble  case — and  if  that  possible  case  ever 
prove  a  reality,  I  wish  you  ever  to  bear 


in   mind —     Are  you  attending  to  me, 
Celia  ?" 

«  Indeed,  indeed  I  am,"  said  Celia, 
raising  her  downcast  eyes  to  Sydenham's 
face  :  "you  wish  me  to  bear  in  mind — " 

"  That  no  man — I  will  not  say  who 
loves  you,  but  whose  good  opinion  is 
worth  striving  after  or  caring  for — that 
no  man  who  has  the  slightest  claim  to 
be  called  good  or  wise  will  visit  on  the 
daughter  the  father's  sins.  If  any  man 
ever  does,  Celia,  take  my  word  for  it, 
you  are  well  rid  of  him." 

Poor  Celia's  eyes  sank  beneath  the 
flash  of  Sydenham's,  and  her  lip  trem 
bled  as  she  faltered  out,  "Are  you  speak 
ing  of  any  one  ?" 

"Of  no  one  whatever,  dear  Celia," 
said  Sydenham,  in  his  usual  gentle  tone. 
"  Pardon  my  vehemence.  I  have  an  un 
lucky  habit,  when  I  think  of  any  mean 
or  wicked  act,  of  personifying  the  crea 
ture  of  my  imagination,  and  speaking  as 
if  it  stood  in  bodily  form  before  me." 

"  How  good  you  are  !"  said  Celia.  "  I 
wish  that  I  could,  only  confide  in  all  the 
world  as  I  do  in  you." 

Sydenham  looked  toward  the  door. 
It  opened,  and,  her  cheeks  glowing  with 
health  and  exercise,  her  bright  eyes 
radiant  with  spirit,  Leoline  entered. 

"Ah,  still  here?  I  am  so  glad!" 
she  said,  tripping  lightly  up  to  Celia. 

Something  struck  her  in  the  expression 
of  her  friend's  face,  and  she  looked  from 
her  to  her  father. 

"  I  believe  I  had  better  go  up  to  my 
room  and  lay  aside  my  hat,"  she  said, 
demurely. 

"  Put  your  hat  beside  mine  on  the 
piano,"  said  Celia,  "and  sit  down  with 
us,  like  a  reasonable  creature.  Did  you 
think  your  father  and  I  had  been  plot- ' 
ting  treason  that  was  to  be  kept  from 
you  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  didn't  know.  You  both  look 
ed  as  if  you  had  had  a  long,  confidential 
chat." 

"  So  we  have.  Your  father  has  been 
doing  me  so  much  good,  dear  Lela." 

"  Has  he  ?"  said  Leoline,  depositing 
her  hat  and  shawl.  "  Good  father  ! 
He  shall  have  a  kiss,  to  pay  him  for  it, 
before  I  sit  down.  There !  Confess^ 


8o 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


Celia,  that  was  more  than  you  gave  him, 
with  all  your  gratitude.  Ah,  you  were 
afraid.  You  needn't  have  been.  Papa 
is  not  a  dangerous  man  to  kiss." 

"  How  do  you  know,  rattlebrain  ?" 
said  Sydenham,  smiling.  «  Celia  thinks, 
at  all  events,  that  I  am  too  young  for 
her  father." 

"  Does  she  ?  Wise  girl !  Her  father, 
indeed  !  I  often  think  you're  not  nearly 
old  enough  for  mine.  Do  you  know," 
turning  to  Celia,  "I  feel  so  tempted 
sometimes  to  call  him  Frank  !  How  do 
you  think  it  would  do  ?  But  what  great 
good  has  my  young  father  been  doing 
you,  dear?" 

"I  came  here,  seeing  nothing  in' the 
future  but  strife  and  unhappiness.  And 
now  I  am  going  away  with  a  heart — no, 
not  as  light  as  yours,  Lela  :  nothing  but 
a  bird  singing  in  the  morning  sunshine 
can  match  that — but  hopeful,  reassured; 
feeling  as  if  some  tempest  had  suddenly 
passed  away,  and  a  bright,  genial  sky 
had  come  out,  with  a  few  clouds  here 
and  there — maybe  a  dark  one  now  and 
then — but  only  such  as  all  skies  that 
shine  on  this  world  of  ours  must  some 
times  have." 

"  That's  my  own  Celia  !"  said  Leoline, 
kissing  her.  "A  practical  philosopher  ! 
Papa  is  great  on  philosophy.  And  now, 
to  do  honor  to  his  lesson,  these  eyes 
must  grow  bright  again  ;  these  cheeks — 
let  me  look  at  them  ! — they  show  a  little 
better  just  now,  but  they  have  been  of 
late  most  unphilosophically  pale — " 

"Why,  philosophy  is  privileged  to  be 
pale.  «  The  pale  cast  of  thought.'  " 

"Not  in  our  house.  Ask  papa.  We 
are  republicans,  and  don't  allow  phil 
osophy  a  bit  more  privilege  than  the 
humblest  handmaiden  virtue  in  her  train: 
pale  cheeks  least  of  all." 

« Lela  reminds  me,"  said  Sydenham 
to  Celia,  "that  I  intended  to  prescribe 
for  these  cheeks  and  eyes.  But  as  my 
crucibles  and  alembics  are  out  of  order 
just  now,  and  as  the  chief  ingredient  re 
quired  is  not  to  be  found  in  our  village 
drug-store-r-" 

"You  must  cull  the   necessary  sim 
ples,"   interrupted  Celia,  "just  at  mid- 
in  the  moonlit  forest." 


"  No  :  I  am  more  likely  to  be  success 
ful  at  midday,  and  in  the  neighborhood 
of  some  thriving  farm." 

"  I  don't  think  your  father  has  one 
spark  of  poetry  in  his  composition,  Lela. 
If  anything  is  presented  to  him  with  the 
least  spice  of  imagination  about  it,  he 
analyzes  and  dissects  it  after  such  an 
inexorably  matter-of-fact  fashion  !  And 
now  he  won't  even  gather  the  materials 
for  the  specific  he  promises  me, 

'  In  that  hour 
That  scatters  spells  on  herb  and  flower.'  " 

"  Out,  Celia — completely  out  in  that 
guess  !  Papa  not  poetical !  You  don't 
know  anything  about  him.  As  to  the 
moonlight,  I  can't  say.  If  he  makes  up 
a  prescription  for  you  at  all,  it's  more 
than  he  ever  did  for  me.  He  was  telling 
me,  the  other  day,  that  the  Greeks  em 
ployed  the  same  word  for  medicine  and 
Poison" 

"Nevertheless  Celia  shall  have  her 
prescription  within  ten  days — to  be  taken 
once  a  day,  if  the  celestial  influences  are 
favorable." 

"  This  is  some  joke  of  papa's.  Don't 
puzzle  your  brain  to  understand  it  now, 
Celia  :  it  will  unriddle  itself  one  of  these 
days.  But  for  papa  having  no  poetry 
about  him,  I  must  come  to  his  defence 
there.  Gravely  as  he  may  talk  to  you, 
he  sometimes  reads  to  me  his  favorite 
poets,  English  and  German,  by  the  hour; 
and  I  caught  him,  this  very  morning, 
translating  from  Schiller,  I  believe,  some 
ballad  or  ode.  What  was  it,  papa  ?" 

"  Schiller's  <  Ideale ;'  a  favorite  of 
mine — a  lament  over  the  loss,  in  middle 
age,  of  the  beautiful  Ideal  cherished  in 
early  youth.  And,  by  the  way,  Celia,  as 
there  are  some  of  the  verses  not  inap 
plicable  to  your  case —  You  read  Ger 
man,  do  you  not  ?" 

"  Not  with  facility.  Read  me  your 
translation." 

"  I  am  sorry  ;  for  I  have  not  at  all 
succeeded  in  rendering  the  melodious 
flow  and  graceful  spirit  of  the  original. 
The  idea  is  all  I  can  give  you.  Lela, 
my  child,  you  will  find  the  manuscript 
on  the  sofa-table." 

Lela  brought  it,  and  Sydenham  re 
sumed  :  "  The  opening  verses  I  have 


BETOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


Si 


not  yet  arranged  to  my  satisfaction. 
Here  are  a  few,  picked  out  toward  the 
conclusion  : 

"  How  rich  the  buds  of  promise  that  put  forth 

Along  my  life's  path  as  I  wandered  on  ! 
How  few  of  these  have  'scaped  the  chilly  North  1 
How  soon  the  freshness  of  these  few  is  gone  ! 

*  With  bounding  courage  winged,  through  fairy-land, 

Happy  in  dreams  that  cheat  the  fleeting  hours, 
Untouched,  as  yet,  by  Sorrow's  fetter-hand, 

How  sprang  the  youth  along  that  path  of  flowers  ! 

"  Aloft  to  ether's  farthest,  palest  star 

His  checkless  wishes  bore  him  in  their  flight : 
No  thought  so  high,  no  enterprise  so  far, 
But  on  their  soaring  wings  he  reached  its  height. 

44  How  lightsome  was  he  borne  through  ambient  air  1 

What  task  seemed  weary  in  that  joyous  day  1 
How  graceful  swept,  before  his  triumph-car, 
The  airy  heralds  of  life's  summer-way  I 

*  Love,  with  her  sweet  reward,  I  ween,  was  there, 

And  Happiness,  with  golden  wreath  bedight, 
Glory,  with  crown  of  stars  that  blazed  afar, 
And  Truth,  resplendent  in  her  garb  of  light. 

"  Alas  !  midway  th'  inconstant  troop  divide  ; 

The  fair  companions  of  his  path  are  gone : 
Faithless,  they  turn  their  devious  steps  aside — 
Faithless,  forsake  the  wanderer,  one  by  one. 

'  Lone  and  more  lone  the  dreary  path  doth  seem, 

And  more  forsaken  still,  and  darker  aye ; 
Hope's  fading  torch  scarce  sheds  one  flick'ring  gleam 
Athwart  the  rudeness  of  the  murky  way ! 

*  Of  all  the  clamorous  attendant  train, 

Who  yet  remains  where'er  my  footsteps  roam? 
Who  lingers  still  to  cherish  and  sustain, 
And  follows  even  to  the  last,  dark  Home  ? 

**  Healer  of  ills  with  which  the  world  is  rife, 

Thou,  FRIENDSHIP  !  of  the  soft  and  gentle  hand — 
Thou  who  dividest  all  the  cares  of  life, 
Whose  love,   unchanged,   all  ordeals   can  with 
stand  ; — 

And  Thou  who  by  her  side  hast  constant  stood, 
And    who,    like    her,   the   soul  from  grief  canst 
sever, — 

Thou,  INDUSTRY  !  who  weariest  not  in  good, 
Creating  evermore,  destroying  never  ; — 

"  Thou  who,  to  rear  the  sempiternal  pile, 

But  grain,  indeed,  on  grain  of  sand  doth  cast, 
Yet  from  the  roll  of  ancient  Time,  the  while. 
Days,  years,  a  lifetime,  strikest  off  at  last." 

Sydenham  read  well — a  rare  accom 
plishment.  Celia  thought  she  had  never 
seen  him  look  so  handsome. 

"Beautiful  !"  she  exclaimed,  "and  so 

just !      I  shall  ask  Mrs.  Mowbray  to  let 

me   go   over   the   original  with   her.      I 

must    go."     She    rose :     « Why,    Lela, 

6 


how  wet  your  dress  is  !    What  have  you 
been  about  ?" 

"That  mare  of  yours  is  hard-mouthed." 

"She  ran  away  ?" 

"Something  like  it.  Nay,  Celia,  nay, 
darling  papa  ;  your  anxious  looks  fright 
en  me  far  more  than  Brunette  did.  Mrs. 
Hartland  is  quite  safe." 

"  How  was  it,  my  child  ?"  said  Syd 
enham,  his  voice  calm,  though  all  color 
had  forsaken  his  cheeks. 

"  Perhaps  I  was  off  my  guard  for  a 
moment,  interested  in  the  conversation 
— it  was  about  you,  Celia.  A  colt  racing 
in  the  pasture  startled  the  mare  near  the 
bottom  of  the  hill,  and  she  started  off. 
I'm  satisfied  I  could  have  taken  her  up, 
only  good  Mr.  Harper  tried  to  stop  her, 
and  made  things  worse.  So,  as  I  had 
no  mind  to  drive  into  town  at  that  John- 
Gilpin  pace,  I  ran  the  mare  into  the 
pond,  where  I  knew  I  could  stop  her 
easily — at  expense  of  a  sprinkling,  as 
you  see." 

"  Thank  God  !"  said  Sydenham. 

"  She's  not  vicious,  papa  :  I  told  you 
so.  She  ran  beautifully.  If  I  had  had 
a  stiff  bit,  instead  of  a  snaffle,  I  know  I 
could  have  held  her.  But  perhaps  Mr. 
Hartland  had  better  sell  her.  She's 
hardly  safe  for  you  to  drive,  Celia  ;  and 
what  a  pity  it  is  !  There  isn't  such  an 
other  beauty  in  the  county.  I  wish  men 
and  horses  were  always  as  good  as  they 
look.  Dear  papa,  that  was  so  frightened 
about  his  runaway  daughter" — she  kissed 
him  fondly  —  "I'm  glad  I  got  him  to 
smile  once  more." 

Celia  had  put  on  her  hat  and  shawl. 
"  No,"  to  Leoline,  who  was  about  to  do 
the  same.  "  My  talk  with  your  father 
has  made  me  feel  more  independent  al 
ready,  and  I  shall  go  home  alone.  This 
is  the  hour  of  your  drawing-lesson,  I 
know.  How  do  you  get  on  ?" 

"  Charmingly,  if  you  will  trust  to  Aunt 
Hannah,  who,  you  know,  has  not  the 
heart  to  find  fault  with  anything.  Papa 
is  not  so  easily  satisfied,  and  he  is  right." 

"  Good  Mrs.  Clymer  !  I  do  believe 
God  never  made  a  kinder  heart.  Where 
is  she  this  morning  ?" 

"In  the  village,  I  believe,  visiting  the 
saddler's  wife,  who  was  taken  ill  in 


82 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


church   last   Sunday.       I   dare   say  you 
will  meet  her  on  your  way  down." 

"Good-bye,  dear  Lela.  Mr.  Syden- 
ham,  I  shall  never  forget  your  kindness, 
nor,  I  hope,  your  advice." 


CHAPTER  XIIT. 
CHISKAUGA   MATTERS. 

"  He  mourns  the  dead  who  lives  as  they  desire." 

YOUNG. 

WHEN  Sydenham,  in  fulfillment  of  his 
promise  to  Alice  Hartland,  called  on  her 
husband  to  speak  of  Celia  Pembroke 
and  her  suitors,  it  was  with  slender  hope 
that  any  good  would  result ;  and  the  cold 
and  distant  manner  with  which  Mr.  Hart- 
land  received  his  first  allusion  to  the 
subject  convinced  him  that  any  direct  in 
terference  on  his  part  would  injure  rather 
than  benefit  the  girl's  cause.  This  arose 
not  only  from  Hartland's  impatience  of 
contradiction,  and  because  he  and  Syd 
enham  were  mutually  antipathetical,  but 
also  because  circumstances  that  had  oc 
curred  eight  or  ten  years  before  had  pro 
duced,  on  the  part  of  the  former,  a  cool 
ness  toward  the  other  which  seemed  but 
to  increase  with  time — a  coolness  grow 
ing  out  of  a  benefit  conferred.  In 
some  natures  benefits  unwillingly  re 
ceived  rankle  as  deeply  as  injuries. 

Inasmuch  as  the  circumstances  re 
ferred  to  connect  themselves  with  the 
earlier  fortunes  of  the  neighborhood  in 
which  our  scene  is  laid,  and  afford  an 
opportunity  to  present  to  our  readers  a 
'member  of  Mr.  Hartland's  family  better 
worth  their  acquaintance  than  that  gentle 
man  himself,  they  will  bear  with  us,  per 
haps,  while  we  revert  to  them. 

Sydenham,  when  he  made  his  home 
close  by  a  Western  village,  entered  what 
to  him  was  a  new  world — a  world  differ 
ing  more  widely  from  that  which  swarms 
in  oui  Atlantic  cities  than  the  people  of 
these  cities  differ  from  those  of  the 
towns  and  villages  of  England.  Still 
greater,  however,  was  the  contrast  be 
tween  the  farmers  and  farm-laborers 
around  Chiskauga  and  the  same  classes 
on  the  continent  of  Europe. 


The  young  Fhiladelphian,  when  he 
first  crossed  to  the  Old  World,  had  spent 
months  in  a  pedestrian  tour — for  a  time 
in  the  agricultural  portions  of  England, 
afterward  among  the  peasantry  of  France 
and  of  Germany.  He  had  often  found 
among  them  simple  goodness,  patience 
under  hopeless  toil,  resignation  beneath 
grievous  burdens.  He  had  met  a  cheer 
ful  smile,  a  ready  welcome.  But  the 
spirit  of  the  man  was  not  there — the 
spirit  that  can  look  up  with  an  honest 
confidence,  and  feel  that  while  it  is  no 
man's  master,  neither  is  it  any  man's 
slave.  One  felt — they  felt — that  between 
themselves  and  the  favored  of  fortune 
there  was  fixed  an  almost  impassable 
gulf. 

How  great  the  difference  he  found  in 
the  lowliest  cabin  of  our  rural  West ! 
Humble,  often  the  means  ;  homely  the 
forms  ;  blunt,  nor  usually  grammatical, 
the  manner  of  speech  ;  but  a  certain 
rude  independence,  natural  not  assumed, 
shone  through— a  quiet  sense  of  equality 
in  political  rights  and  in  the  pursuit  of 
honors  and  office.  The  tone  in  which 
hospitality  was  tendered  assured  one  of 
this.  Seldom  any  apology  for  rough 
fare  or  poor  lodging  ;  or,  if  such  was 
made,  not  in  the  tone  of  humility  one 
meets  with  on  the  Rhine  or  in  the 
French  chaumiere. 

A  trifling  incident  brought  this  home 
to  Sydenham.  One  evening,  at  the  close 
of  a  political  meeting  held  in  the  open 
air  and  in  a  remote  portion  of  the 
county,  he  had  accepted  an  invitation, 
from  a  farmer  carrying  his  homespun 
coat  over  his  arm,  to  stay  with  him  until 
next  morning.  He  found  a  large  family 
inhabiting  a  double  log-cabin,  with  an 
open  entry  separating  the  two  compart 
ments.  "  We're  poorly  fixed  to  take  in 
strangers  like  you,  Mr.  Sydenham,"  said 
the  farmer  as  they  entered  ;  then  added, 
with  a  smile,  "but  I  thought,  as  we've 
made  out  with  our  accommodations  for 
fifteen  years,  that  maybe  you'd  be  willing 
to  put  up  with  them  for  one  night." 

Supper,  plentiful  but  badly  cooked, 
was  served  in  the  kitchen.  Two  grown 
up  daughters  remained  in  that  apart 
ment  for  the  night,  while  the  rest  of  the 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


family  adjourned  to  the  other.  Three 
or  four  younger  children  there  clambered, 
by  a  short  ladder,  to  the  loft  above, 
while  the  guest  and  his  host,  sitting 
down  by  a  blazing  log-heap,  dropped 
into  a  long  chat ;  the  wife,  on  the  other 
side  of  the  fireplace,  knitting  and  listen 
ing  as  silently  as  her  ancestress,  Eve, 
when  Adam  was  talking  with  the  Angel 
Raphael  on  the  origin  of  the  world  and 
other  celestial  mysteries. 

The  conversation  branched  off  into 
arguments  on  government,  and  Syden- 
ham  had  occasion — not  for  the  first  nor 
the  twentieth  time  since  his  arrival 
among  these  primitive  people — to  note 
the  common  sense  which  marked  the 
man's  judgment  of  men  and  things  and 
his  views  of  national  policy,  albeit  these 
were  couched  in  uncouth  phrase  and 
interlarded  with  homeliest  illustrations. 

At  an  early  hour  the  husband,  after 
covering  up  the  fire  with  ashes,  retired 
to  rest  with  his  wife  in  one  end  of  the 
apartment,  while  to  Sydenham  was  as 
signed  a  cot  bedstead,  with  clean  sheets 
and  abundant  bed-clothing,  at  the  other. 
The  latter  lay  long  awake,  watching  the 
effect  of  the  moonbeams  shining  through 
the  gaping  apertures  between  the  logs 
of  the  cabin  wall,  and  calling  to  mind 
Waller's  lines  : 

"  The  soul's  dark  cottage,  battered  and  decayed, 
Lets  in  new  light   through  chinks   that  Time  has 
made." 

If  a  certain  abrupt  rusticity  of  de 
meanor,  common  especially  to  the  older 
settlers,  jarred,  at  first,  on  Sydenham's 
fastidious  taste,  yet,  as  he  penetrated 
the  rough  shell,  he  found  beneath  such 
genuine  qualities,  so  much  that  was  fresh 
and  racy,  mixed  too  with  a  quick  sense 
of  humor,  that  his  prejudice  melted 
away.  These  people,  for  example,  were 
strictly  law-abiding ;  yet  with  their  re 
spect  for  the  law's  behests  was  min 
gled  but  little  reverence  for  its  external 
forms.  Witness  an  old  anecdote,  cur 
rent  among  them  :  Nancy  Leavitt,  known 
to  all  the  county  as  widow  of  a  thriving 
farmer  who  had  made  his  home  there  at 
an  early  day,  had  been  summoned  as 
witness  in  a  suit  pending  between  two 
of  her  neighbors.  This  ancient  dame 


was  hale  and  hearty,  and  she  began 
giving  testimony  with  great  self-posses 
sion.  But  as  she  had  lost  several  teeth, 
her  enunciation  was  somewhat  indis 
tinct,  and  her  voice  no  longer  as  power 
ful  as  in  her  younger  days  it  had  been. 
Add  to  this  that  she  wore  what  was 
called  usually  a  sun-bonnet,  sometimes  a 
"poke-bonnet,"  made  up  of  a  liberal 
allowance  of  pasteboard,  covered  with 
gay  calico,  projecting  farther  than  even 
the  Quaker  fashion  permits  in  front,  and 
with  a  voluminous  cape,  protecting  the 
neck  from  the  sun,  behind. 

"  Madam,"  said  the  judge,  "  we  will 
thank  you  to  speak  a  little  louder." 

A  second  attempt  did  not  seem  to  be 
more  successful,  for  the  judge  again 
interrupted  her : 

"  Witness,  the  court  cannot  hear  a 
word  you  say.  Please  to  take  off  that 
large  bonnet  of  yours." 

"  Sir,"  she  replied,  "  the  court  has 
a  perfect  right  to  make  a  gentleman 
take  off  his  hat,  but  it  has  no  right  at 
all  to  require  of  a  lady  to  take  off  her 
bonnet." 

"  Upon  my  word,"  retorted  the  judge, 
"you  seem  to  be  so  well  versed  in  law, 
madam,  that  I  think  you  had  better  come 
up  here  and  take  a  seat  on  the  bench 
beside  us." 

Whereupon  the  old  lady  rose,  dropped 
a  low  curtsy,  and,  with  the  gravest  face, 
and  to  the  infinite  amusement  of  lawyers 
and  audience,  added :  « I  thank  your 
honor  very  kindly,  but  there  are  old  wo 
men  enough  there  already." 

When  Anna  Sydenham,  on  her  death 
bed,  commended  to  her  husband's  care 
the  inhabitants  of  Chiskauga,  she  "build- 
ed  better  than  she  knew."  Yet  it  is 
doubtful  whether  Sydenham,  with  his 
lofty  aspirations  and  his  vague  theories 
of  perfectibility,  would  have  succeeded 
in  doing  much  practical  good  among 
these  people  but  for  a  fortunate  incident. 
While  casting  about,  soon  after  his  ar 
rival,  for  some  intelligent  foreman  or 
manager  accustomed  to  land  operations 
and  farming  business,  and  familiar  with 
the  habits  of  the  West,  he  became  ac- 
quninted  with  Ethan  Hartlancl,  son  of 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


Mr.  Hartland  by  his  first  wife,  a  young 
man  who  had  returned,  six  months  be 
fore,  from  a  four  years'  residence  in 
Germany,  where,  in  an  excellent  poly 
technic  institute,  he  had  qualified  him 
self  as  civil  engineer.  Yet  his  tastes, 
formed  before  he  went  to  Germany,  were 
for  farming  pursuits.  Modest  and  de 
ficient  in  self-assertion,  he  preferred  the 
independence  of  rural  life  to  the  chances 
in  a  profession  where  success  depends, 
in  a  measure,  on  patronage.  Sydenham 
made  his  acquaintance,  and  liked  him. 
He  found  him  steady,  industrious,  per 
severing — a  great  favorite,  too,  with  the 
country-people  on  account  of  his  good 
nature  and  ready  sympathy.  Young  as 
Ethan  was,  Sydenham  fell  into  a  habit 
of  consulting  him  on  his  plans  for  the 
sale  and  improvement  of  his  property, 
and  for  meliorating  the  condition  and  re 
forming  some  of  the  habits  of  the  popu 
lation  in  the  village  and  its  neighbor 
hood.  He  soon  discovered  that  the 
youth,  under  his  quiet  demeanor,  had 
opinions  and  a  will  of  his  own,  and  he 
gradually  began  to  entertain  doubts 
whether  sundry  of  the  somewhat  am 
bitious  schemes  he  had  himself  projected 
might  not  be  advantageously  modified  by 
the  practical,  business  objections  which 
the  ather  interposed. 

"  I  have  more  land,"  he  said  one  day 
to  Ethan  Hartland,  "  than  any  one  per 
son  ought  to  possess  while  so  many 
hard-working  men  around  me  have  no 
homes  of  their  own  ;  and  I  have  been 
thinking  of  a  plan  by  which  this  in 
justice  might  be  remedied." 

«  What  do  you  propose  ?" 

"A  workingman's  land  association.  I 
am  willing  to  place  at  the  disposal  of  the 
members  three  or  four  thousand  acres 
at  two-thirds  of  the  present  market 
price.  Let  a  certain  number  of  laboring 
men  organize  a  joint-stock  company,  with 
shares,  say,  of  ten  dollars.  When  the 
number  of  shares  acquired  by  any  stock 
holder  is  sufficient  to  purchase  a  home 
for  him,  let  him  take  it  up.  I  will  accept 
payment  for  the  land  as  it  is  sold.  Let 
him  who  is  first  ready  to  buy  have  the 
preference." 

"If  you  put  the  land  at  two-thirds  its 


market  value,  speculators  would  be  likely 
to  come  in  and  engross  the  whole." 

"  But  I  should  make  it  a  condition 
that  the  company  pass  a  regulation  to 
the  effect  that  no  'member  be  allowed  to 
buy  until  he  is  ready  to  build  and  im 
prove  ;  and  that  if,  within  a  given  time, 
he  did  not  make  the  improvements 
specified,  the  land  should  fall  back  to 
the  company." 

« Even  the  passage  of  such  a  pro 
vision  might  prove  insufficient  protection 
against  the  greed  of  speculators." 

"  You  are  suspicious,  Ethan,  for  so 
young  a  man,"  said  Sydenham,  smiling. 

"The  facts  are  in  my  favor,  Mr.  Syd 
enham.  On  my  return  from  Europe  I 
spent  a  month  with  an  uncle  in  Phila 
delphia,  and  met  at  his  house  a  Mr. 
Disland,  who  had  promoted  just  such  an 
association  as  you  propose,  and  taken 
stock  therein.  The  company  made  a 
judicious  purchase  of  five  thousand 
acres  of  unimproved  land,  partly  on 
credit,  and,  guided  by  Mr.  Disland's 
advice,  adopted  the  very  regulation  you 
have  just  suggested." 

"  Indeed  !  This  interests  me.  What 
was  the  result  ?*' 

"At  first  all  went  well.  Several  of 
the  members  turned  their  shares  into 
building  lots  or  small  farms,  and  im 
proved  these.  Gradually  all  the  stock 
was  taken  up.  Other  settlers  following 
the  example  of  the  first,  the  land  began 
to  increase  in  value.  Thereupon  the 
shares  rose  to  a  premium.  This  at 
tracted  the  attention  of  land  operators, 
who  bought  in  pretty  heavily,  hoping  for 
a  farther  rise.  Disappointed  in  this, 
they  wished  to  turn  their  shares  into 
land,  but  the  rule  in  regard  to  improve 
ment  stood  in  the  way." 

"  Did  not  that  induce  them  to  sell  out 
again  ?" 

"  No.  They  combined  together,  in 
trigued  with  the  laboring  men  who  held 
shares,  represented  to  them  what  an  ad 
vantage  they  would  reap  if  each  was  al 
lowed  to  secure  a  site  at  once,  instead 
of  waiting  till  he  had  money  enough  to 
build,  and  so  losing  the  best  lots.  Then, 
taking  advantage  of  Mr.  Disland's  ab 
sence  from  Philadelphia,  they  procured 


BETOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


a  call  for  a  public  meeting  of  the  stock 
holders,  had  the  obnoxious  resolution 
reconsidered  and  rescinded,  and  the  next 
morning,  within  a  quarter  of  an  hour  after 
the  office  opened,  they  entered,  to  the 
amount  of  their  shares,  the  most  valuable 
portions  of  the  property." 

"  The  rascals  !" 

"  They  considered  it  a  fair  business 
transaction." 

"  Do  you  know  how  the  matter  finally 
resulted  ?" 

"  Mr.  Disland  returned  the  same  day, 
and  sold  out  all  his  shares  before  even 
ing.  The  stock  gradually  declined,  poor 
men  being  unwilling  to  enter  and  im 
prove  a  bit  of  property  lying  by  the 
side  of  a  larger  tract  held  by  some  rich 
man,  who  avowedly  declined  to  do  his 
part,  waiting  for  others  to  move,  and 
thus  seeking  to  reap  where  he  had  not 
sowed.  In  four  or  five  months  after 
ward  the  association  went  to  pieces." 

"  I  think  precautions  might  be  taken 
to  prevent  such  a  result.  In  conveying 
the  land  to  the  company  I  might  make 
it  an  imperative  and  irrevocable  con 
dition  that  it  should  not  be  sold  out 
except  under  stringent  improvement 
stipulations." 

"  Our  people  are  peculiar,  Mr.  Syden- 
ham.  Wherever,  in  larger  or  smaller 
deliberative  bodies,  they  have  the  right 
to  debate  and  decide,  they  want,  to  use 
a  common  phrase,  to  have  their  'full 
swing  ;'  not  to  be  cramped  by  restric 
tions,  however  wholesome,  that  have 
been  arbitrarily  imposed.  I  think  they 
would  not  submit  to  the  Constitution 
itself  if  they  did  not  know  they  had  the 
right  to  amend  it." 

Sydenham,  struck  with  the  sagacity 
of  these  strictures,  pondered  the  mat 
ter  ;  and  meeting  Ethan  next  day,  in 
vited  him  to  spend  the  evening  at  his 
house.  There  the  conversation  was 
renewed. 

"  I  still  think  my  plan  of  a  land  as 
sociation  practicable,"  said  Sydenham, 
"  if  the  first  movers  are  prudent  in  se 
lecting  their  associates,  and  if  they  have 
a  wide  range  of  choice.  But  it  might  be 
less  advisable  here,  where  the  number 
of  land  purchasers  is  limited,  and  one 


has  to   take  them   as   one   finds   them. 
Have  you  any  substitute  to  propose  ?" 

«  The  idea  of  selling  land  below  the 
current  rates,  and  under  strict  improve 
ment  stipulations,  seems  to  me  practica 
and  very  important.  But  why  not  go 
directly  to  your  object  ?  Retain  in  your 
own  hands  the  powers  you  propose  to 
delegate  to  an  association.  Say  that 
you  set  apart  five  thousand  acres.  Have 
these  laid  out,  in  the  vicinity  of  the  vil 
lage,  in  building  lots  of  a  few  acres 
each,  and  farther  off  have  the  land  di 
vided  into  small  farms.  Reserve  from 
sale  each  alternate  lot  and  farm,  and 
offer  the  rest  (giving  several  years' 
credit  for  part  of  the  purchase-money) 
at  low  and  fixed  rates.  Instead  of  a 
deed,  give  the  purchaser  a  bond  of 
agreement  containing  a  covenant  on  his 
part  to  erect,  say  within  a  year,  a  habita 
tion  for  purposes  of  occupancy,  and  to 
make  certain  other  specified  improve 
ments,  with  the  right  to  demand  a 
warranty  deed  as  soon  as  these  condi 
tions  are  fulfilled  and  the  land  is  paid 
for.  Before  the  first  two  thousand  five 
hundred  acres  are  sold  out,  the  remainder 
will  have  risen  greatly  in  value." 

«  I  should  be  willing  to  stipulate  that 
I  will  sell  the  reserved  lots  and  farms  at 
the  same  rates  as  before.  The  increase 
of  price  will  be  due  to  the  labor  of 
others,  not  to  my  own." 

"  That  would  be  generous  :  yet  I  ad 
vise  not  to  encumber  yourself  with  any 
promise  in  advance.  If  the  difference 
between  the  selling  price  and  the  actual 
value  of  these  lands  be  great,  great  also 
will  be  the  temptation  to  circumvent  you. 
You  may  hereafter  see  fit  to  set  apart  a 
portion  of  the  surplus  which  you  now 
think  of  relinquishing,  and  to  expend  it  in 
works  of  public  value — to  aid  the  schools 
of  the  village,  or  in  drainage,  in  opening 
roads  and  avenues,  and  planting  these 
out  with  shade  trees.  Possibly  that 
might,  in  the  end,  be  best  for  all  parties." 

Sydenham  sat  silent  for  some  time  : 
then  he  asked,  « How  old  are  you, 
Ethan  ?" 

"Just  twenty-two." 

"  You  seem  to  have  given  much  at 
tention  to  this  subject." 


86 


BEYOND    THE   BREAKERS. 


"  I  owe  my  ideas  on  it  chiefly  to  Mr. 
Disland,  who  has  made  it  a  study  for 
years." 

The  young  man's  modesty  attracted 
Sydenham  :  "  Have  you  determined  to 
follow  out  your  profession  as  engineer  ?" 

«  My  father  wishes  it,  but,  so  far,  no 
situation  has  offered.  The  former  pres 
ident  of  the  Riverdale  Railway,  an  inti 
mate  friend  of  my  father,  had  promised 
to  give  me  a  post  on  his  road  as  assist 
ant  engineer,  but  he  died,  as  you  may 
remember,  a  month  before  my  return. 
I  can  hardly  say  I  regret  that  I  missed 
the  chance,  for  I  greatly  prefer  a  farmer's 
life." 

"  You  managed  a  farm  of  your  father's, 
I  think,  for  two  years  before  you  went 
to  Germany  ?" 

''Yes,  and  should  be  glad  to  return 
to  it." 

"  Perhaps  I  can  offer  you  something 
better.  You  know,  probably,  that  I 
have  between  nine  and  ten  thousand 
acres  in  and  around  Chiskatiga.  I  am 
quite  ignorant  of  the  details  of  Western 
farming  and  land  management,  and  I 
want  an  educated  young  man  as  superin 
tendent,  to  supply  my  deficiencies.  I 
know  how  thorough  German  training  is : 
it  is  an  excellent  preparation  for  our 
faster  life.  I  think  we  should  suit  each 
other,  Ethan.  What  say  you  ?" 

"As  my  father  has  recently  finished 
paying  for  my  education,  I  ought  to  con 
sult  him.  But  I  feel  most  deeply  the 
confidence  with  which  you  honor  me, 
Mr.  Sydenham,  and  should  be  delighted 
to  accept  the  situation." 

"  I  can  afford  a  salary  of  eight  hun 
dred  or  a  thousand  a  year.  I  know  you 
could  save  me  as  much  as  that." 

« Give  me  sixty  dollars  a  month,  if 
you  find  my  services  worth  the  amount. 
I  can  pay  my  own  board  and  live  com 
fortably  for  less  ;  and  that  is  more  than 
a  young  man  of  my  age  can  reasonably 
expect." 

"  One  can  see  that  you  come  from  a 
German  college,  Ethan.  Young  Amer 
ica  will  leave  you  behind.  By  the  way, 
when  we  talk  business,  let  it  be  in  Ger 
man.  How  I  envy  you  your  accent  !" 

With     that     they    parted,     mutually 


pleased.  Not  at  all  pleased,  however, 
when  he  heard  of  it,  was  Mr.  Hart- 
land,  Sr. 

Parents,  especially  those  who,  like 
Ethan's  father,  are  of  an  arbitrary  turn, 
are  apt  to  forget  that  when  their  chil 
dren  reach  adult  age  the  time  has  ar 
rived  when  advice  should  succeed  au 
thority.  Mr.  Hartland  was  angered  that 
his  son,  after  four  years  spent  in  pre 
paring  for  one  profession,  should  select 
another.  "  I  hate  such  change  of  pur 
pose  in  a  young  man,"  he  said. 

"  You  may  remember,  sir,'  the  son 
replied  in  a  respectful  tone,  "  that  when 
you  were  about  sending  me  to  Europe,  I 
begged  you,  instead,  to  let  me  study  im 
proved  agriculture  on  Professor  Mapes' 
farm.  You  yourself  selected  for  me  the 
profession  of  engineer.  I  am  grateful  for 
the  expense  you  incurred  in  qualifying  me 
as  such,  and  in  giving  me  an  opportu 
nity  to  see  foreign  countries  and  to  learn 
German.  I  have  always  been  ready,  at 
a  day's  notice,  to  go  into  the  field  if  a 
situation  presented  itself.  But  six  months 
have  elapsed,  and  I  do  not  wish  to  be  a 
burden  on  you,  now  that  a  chance  offers 
to  make  my  own  livelihood." 

"  Have  I  ever  sent  you  in  a  board- 
bill,  or  refused  to  pay  your  store- 
accounts  ?" 

"  No,  sir  :  I  am  grateful  that  you  have 
not.  But  that  is  no  reason  why  I  should 
remain  dependent  upon  you  longer  than, 
is  necessary." 

"  You  prefer  to  be  dependent  on  Mr. 
Sydenham." 

Ethan  did  not  reply.  He  saw  it  was 
a  matter  of  feeling,  not  of  reason.  The 
next  morning,  after  Mr.  Hartland  and 
his  tin  case  had  gone  out  botanizing, 
Mrs.  Hartland  spoke  to  the  son. 

"  My  dear  Ethan,"  she  said,  "  there 
is  no  one  living  from  whom  I  would 
sooner  see  you  accept  employment  than 
from  Mr.  Sydenham.  But  don't  vex  your 
father.  You  know  he  could  never  en 
dure  opposition." 

"  I  know,  mother  ;  but  then  7  cin't 
endure  dependence." 

"  Not  on  your  own  father  ?" 

"  No.  I  would  accept  the  Axton  farm 
from  him,  and  trouble  him  for  nothing 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


more  ;  but  you  know  he  has  no  inten 
tion  to  give  it  me." 

"  No,  he  doesn't  like  putting  prop 
erty  out  of  his  own  hands.  But  he 
never  refuses  you  money  when  you  want 
it." 

"  I  am  no  longer  a  child,  to  ask  him 
for  every  dollar  I  need." 

"  I  have  to  do  so." 

"  I  know  you  have,  and  that's  all 
wrong." 

"  Oh  fie,  Ethan !  to  talk  of  your 
father  so  !" 

«  It's  the  truth,  mother." 

"  Must  not  a  husband  support  his 
wife  ?" 

"  Yes,  but  he  needn't  dole  out  every 
five-dollar  note  as  if  she  were  a  pensioner 
on  his  bounty." 

"  The  money  is  his,  to  give  or  not  as 
he  pleases.  He  made  it  all." 

"  I  don't  see  that.  If  we  hadn't  you, 
mother,  how  much  would  he  have  to  pay 
for  an  ordinary  housekeeper,  not  to  say 
some  one  that  would  hold  his  property 
as  well  together  and  make  us  all  as  com 
fortable  as  you  do  ?  I  wouldn't  under 
take  it  for  five  hundred  a  year.  I  do 
believe  I  can  manage  Mr.  Sydenham's 
land  with  less  trouble.  It's  nearly  eight 
years  that  you've  been  with  us,  mother  ; 
and  if  all  had  their  dues,  I  think  father 
would  open  a  bank  account  for  you,  and 
place  three  or  four  thousand  dollars  to 
your  credit." 

'<  Did  you  get  these  ideas  in  Ger 
many,  Ethan  ?  When  you  marry  are 
you  going  to  pay  your  wife  five  hundred 
a  year  as  housekeeper  ?" 

"  I  shall  be  too  poor  for  that ;  and 
then  the  mistress  of  a  domestic  estab 
lishment  is  far  more  than  hous&fri^i;' — 
she's  house//0/</<?r." 

"  How  do  you  propose  to  manage, 
then  ?" 

"  I  do  not  intend  to  ask  any  girl  who 
doesn't  understand  housekeeping,  and 
who  can't  tell  what  it  costs.  I'll  ascer 
tain  how  much  she  wants  a  month  to 
keep  house  and  to  cover  her  personal 
expenses,  and  I  won't  marry  till  I  can 
spare  her  that.  Then  I'll  put  enough 
cash  to  last  for  a  month  or  two  in  her 
bureau  drawer,  and  ask  her  for  the  key 


now  and  then,  so  I  can  see  to  it  that  it 
doesn't  run  out." 

Mrs.  Hartland  laughed :  « Bache 
lor's  dreams,  Ethan  !  I  expect  nothing 
else  than  to  see  you  marry  a  girl  who 
don't  know  whether  coffee  needs  roasting 
before  it  is  ground.  Young  people  al 
ways  do  make  up  beautiful  theories 
beforehand." 

"  Well,  mother,  my  only  theory  just 
at  present  is,  that  it  won't  do  for  me  to 
sponge  on  my  father  any  longer.  It's 
wrong." 

"  How  hard  set  you  men  are  in  your 
opinions  !  Ethan,  you've  never  dis 
obeyed  your  father  yet ;  and  when  he  is 
dead  and  gone  it  will  be  a  comfort  to  you 
to  think  that  you  never  did." 

«  It  must  come  to  an  end  some  time, 
mother.  As  well  now  as  later.  I  may 
have  a  household  myself  in  a  few  years, 
and  then  maybe  he'll  object  to  that 
arrangement  about  the  bureau  drawer." 

The  wife  felt  the  justice  of  all  this. 
But  she  felt  more  strongly  still  how 
serious  is  often  the  first  breach  between 
father  and  son.  Alice  Hartland  was  one 
of  those  of  whom  it  is  written  that  they 
shall  be  called  the  children  of  God.  Hu 
man  strife — even  war  itself,  no  doubt — 
has  its  mission,  yet  the  peacemakers  are 
to  be  the  ultimate  rulers  of  a  civilized 
world. 

"  Dear  Ethan,"  she  said,  «  you  have 
always  been  such  a  comfort  to  me  in 
the  house,  especially  since  you  returned 
from  Europe.  God  knows  how  much 
more  willingly  I  should  see  you  accept 
Mr.  Sydenham's  generous  offer  than  to 
have  you  going  off,  to  remain  for  months 
or  years  from  home,  and  then  settling 
down  at  last,  perhaps,  as  resident  engi 
neer  in  some  distant  State.  I  hope  it 
will  never  come  to  that,  and  I  know  you 
have  a  right  to  choose.  But  you  re 
member  Paul  says  :  'All  things  are  law 
ful  for  me,  but  all  things  are  not  expe 
dient.'  Your  father  has  paid  much  for 
your  education.  Cannot  you  give  way 
to  him  a  little?  Cannot  you  agree  to 
wait  a  few  months  ?  Then,  if  there 
seemed  no  chance  of  a  situation  as  en 
gineer,  I  think  he  would  give  way." 

Alice's  mediation  was  successful.    The 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


compromise  was  made.  For  six  months, 
during  which  Ethan  kept  up  his  mathe 
matical  studies  and  sought  in  vain  for 
employment  in  the  field,  Sydenham  re 
served  for  him  the  place  he  had  offered. 
Then,  without  further  opposition  on  his 
father's  part,  the  young  man  accepted  it. 
Hartland  overlooked  the  contumacy  of 
his  son,  but  he  never  forgave  Sydenham. 

Now  that  our  readers  know  something 
of  Ethan's  connection  with  Sydenham, 
and  of  the  cause  that  led  to  the  antip 
athy  which  grew  up  in  the  mind  of  Mr. 
Hartland,  Sr.,  toward  his  son's  employer, 
it  is  time  that  we  return  to  the  current 
of  events  that  followed  Syclenham's  un 
successful  intervention  in  the  love  affairs 
of  Celia  Pembroke. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 
THE   MILLER  AND  THE   GENTLEMAN. 

TEX  days  elapsed.  Then,  one  even 
ing,  Cassiday  came  to  report  progress  to 
Cranstoun. 

"A  devilish  hard  time  of  it  I've  had," 
he  said.  "  That  miller  of  yours  expects 
a  man  to  do  two  days'  work  in  one." 

"  You've  found  out  nothing  ?" 

"He  gave  me  little  chance.  But  I 
like  to  keep  a  promise  when  I'm  well 
paid  for  it." 

«  Let  us  have  it,  then." 

«  Widow  Carson's  boy  Tom  has  been 
hired  by  Mowbray,  at  a  dollar  a  week, 
to  rub  down  that  gray  gelding  of  his 
once  a  day  and  clean  out  the  stable  on 
Saturdays.  I  thought  it  would  be  con 
venient  to  take  the  widow  for  my  washer 
woman,  so  I  got  acquainted  with  the 
boy." 

"  Not  bad,  that." 

"  It's  a  stylish  gelding  enough,  but 
there's  a  splint  coming  on  the  near  fore 
leg." 

"  What's  that  to  me,  you  incorrigible 
horse-jockey  ?" 

"  And  the  shoe  of  that  foot — 

"  You  used  to  be  straightforward, 
Delorny — 

"Cassiday,  if  you  please,  while  I'm 
here." 


"  Very  well.  You  used  to  be  straight 
forward  in  telling  a  story,  Mr.  Cassiday. 
\Vhat  do  I  care  for  splints  and  horse 
shoes  ?" 

"A  horseshoe's  an  important  thing. 
The  rider  has  been  lost  for  lack  of  one 
before  now  ;  and  the  rider  of  that,  same 
gray  may  have  cause  to  curse  that  very 
shoe." 

«  Go  on  your  own  way,  then." 

"  On  one  side  the  iron  has  a  notch  in 
it,  and  on  the  other  there's  a  nail  that's 
been  badly  driven  in,  and  the  head's 
turned  over  a  little.  A  man  can  tell  the 
print  of  the  shoe  among  a  hundred." 

"  You've  tracked  him  ?" 

"He  meets  Ellen — damn  h!m  ! — about 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  north  of  the  road,  and 
half  a  mile  below  the  mill,  near  the  bluff 
bank  of  the  creek,  where  the  brush  is 
thick.  It's  an  unfrequented  spot." 

"  You  saw  him  ?" 

"  And  heard  him,  last  Saturday  after 
noon,  reading  to  her — from  my  name 
sake,  too — Byron's  poems." 

"  How  did  you  know  it  was  Byron  ?" 

"  We  had  an  old  copy  in  the  Squire's 
stable  at  home,  and  1  used  to  read  it  at 
night,  by  the  lantern,  when  the  horses 
were  restless  and  wouldn't  let  me  sleep  : 
that  was  what  made  me  think  of  Byron 
for  a  name  to  go  by.  He  was  dealing 
out  to  her  some  love-verses.  I  could 
have  throttled  the  infernal  scoundrel 
where  he  sat." 

"You  take  up  Ellen's  case  warmly." 

"  Did  not  you  tell  me  the  girl  mustn't 
be  ruined,  and  ar'n't  you  paying  me 
thirty  dollars  a  month  to  look  after  her?" 

"  She's  very  pretty,  isn't  she,  Cassi 
day  ?" 

"If  there  are  any  prettier  girls,  I 
haven't  been  lucky  enough  to  light  on 
them.  And  she's  as  good  and  as  modest 
as  she's  pretty.  I'll  bet  all  I'm  worth 
the  poor  thing  wouldn't  let  that  rascal 
say  three  words  to  her  if  she  didn't  be 
lieve  he  intended  to  make  her  his  wife. 
She  ought  to  be  some  honest  man's 
wife." 

"  Your's,  perhaps  ?" 

"Why  not  ?" 

"  Well,  there  are  some  small  mat 
ters—" 


BEYOND   THE  BREAKERS. 


"That  you  and  I  were  engaged  in 
together  long  ago.  Yes,  I  remember. 
But  then  we  don't  take  any  more  heavy 
risks  now.  We  have  both  reformed, 
you  know.  We're  repentant  sinners. 
And  you  would  like  to  marry — " 

Cranstoun's  eye  warned  Cassiday  that 
he  might  go  too  far ;  so  he  added  : 

"  To  marry  some  rich,  handsome  girl ; 
and  no  doubt  you'll  do  it,  too,  one  of 
these  days." 

"  Are  you  serious,  Cassiday  ?" 

"  Never  was  more  serious  in  all  my 
life.  Didn't  I  tell  you  I  had  set  up  re 
spectable,  as  you've  done.  I've  been 
thinking  it  must  feel  very  comfortable 
when  a  man  has  a  house  of  his  own  over 
his  head,  like  this  of  yours." 

"  But  then — "  said  Cranstoun,  putting 
his  hand  to  his  mouth  and  turning  up 
his  little  finger. 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  rather  dejectedly. 
"That  cursed  drinking  has  been  the 
ruin  of  me.  But  I  haven't  touched  a 
glass  since  I  came  here,  nor  I  don't  in 
tend  to.  I  felt  mean  about  it  when  I 
was  talking,  last  night,  to — to  the  miller 
at  supper." 

"  I  wonder,"  Cranstoun  thought, 
"  whether  a  fancy  for  a  young  girl  really 
could  reclaim  a  sot  like  that  ?"  But  he 
only  said  :  "  Was  the  daughter  at  sup 
per,  too  ?" 

"  Of  course.  The  handiest  girl  about 
a  table,  Mr.  Cranstoun  !  I  believe  she 
knows  what  a  man's  thinking  about  be 
fore  he  asks  for  it." 

"  The  miller's  pretty  well  off  himself, 
and  he'll  look  for  a  son-in-law  that's 
well  to-do  in  the  world." 

"  And  why  shouldn't  I  be  well-to-do  ? 
I've  made  some  money  here  already." 

«  How  was  that  ?" 

"  I  heard  that  Mr.  Sydenham  wanted 
a  handsome  pony  for  a  lady.  Nelson 
Tyler,  who  has  an  eye  for  a  horse,  told 
me  where  to  find  the  snuggest  fourteen- 
hand  mare  in  three  counties,  and  lent 
me  a  nag  to  go  after  her.  Small,  tho 
roughbred  head  ;  eyes  like  a  deer's  ; 
shoulder  thin  and  high,  running  hand 
somely  back ;  arched  neck ;  short- 
coupled  ;  legs  flat  and  clean  and  slender 
as  any  racer's  I  ever  backed  ;  the  least 


little  bits  of  ears  ;  coat  like  silk  ;  mane 
as  fine  as  a  young  girl's  hair,  and  drop 
ping  half  way  to  the  ground  ;  color  just 
the  thing — dark  bay,  with  black  legs. 
Where  the  old  Dutchman  who  owned 
her  got  such  a  beauty  I  can't  imagine. 
He  thought  her  too  spirited  and  too 
light  for  his  work  :  I  got  her  for  a  hun 
dred  and  thirty-five." 

"  And  sold  her  to  Mr.  Sydenham — " 

"  For  a  hundred  and  seventy-five,  and 
cheap  at  that.  Forty  dollars  clear,  you 
see,  for  a  few  hours'  work." 

"  But  Miss  Sydenham  has  a  saddle- 
horse  already." 

"It  was  not  for  her  he  bought  the 
mare." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?" 

"  Would  you  like  to  hear  something 
about  Mr.  Sydenhanrs  motions  for  the 
last  ten  days  ?" 

"  Such  things  never  come  amiss." 

"Well,  the  same  day  I  hired  to  the 
miller,  Miss  Pembroke  and  her  aunt 
started  out,  at  nine  o'clock  in  the  morn 
ing,  to  visit  Mr.  Sydenham.  Mrs.  Hart- 
land  returned  about  eleven,  but  Miss 
Celia  didn't  get  back  till  nearly  one, 
though  Miss  Sydenham  wasn't  at  home." 

"  How  do  you  know  she  wasn't  at 
home  ?" 

"  She  drove  Mrs.  Hartland  back ; 
there  was  a  runaway  scrape,  and  if  the 
girl  hadn't  been  a  trump,  and  rushed 
the  mare  into  that  pond  close  to  town, 
they  might  both  have  had  their  necks 
broken." 

"Anything  more  ?" 

"  Mr.  Sydenham  returned  the  visit 
next  day.  Then  he  set  about  getting  a 
lady's  horse.  Then  he  bought,  at  Jacob 
Hentzler's,  the  handsomest  side-saddle 
and  double  bridle — bit  and  bridoon,  all 
bang-up — that  were  to  be  had  in  the  vil 
lage.  And  this  morning,  being  Miss 
Celia  Pembroke's  birth-day,  he  sent 
down  the  old  coachman  on  one  of  the 
carriage  horses,  leading  that  beauty  of  a 
pony — saddle,  bridle,  white  saddle-cloth, 
ear-nets  and  all  complete — a  birth-day 
present  to  the  heiress." 

"  Confound  his  impudence  !" 

"  She  don't  care  for  him,  Mr.  Crans 
toun  :  she's  looking  another  way." 


BEYOND    THE   BREAKERS. 


«  Upon  my  word,  Mr.  Del — Mr.  Cas- 
siday  —  considering  that  you've  been 
doing  two  days'  work  in  one  at  that  mill, 
you  seem  to  have  been  making  good  use 
of  your  extra  time.  Pray  how  did  you 
happen  to  find  out  the  state  of  the  young 
lady's  heart  ?" 

«  I  was  on  hand  when  she  and  the 
aunt  started  for  Mr.  Sydenham's.  Mow- 
bray  came  along  on  his  gray,  and  I  saw 
her  color  up  red  as  a  peony,  and  cast  a 
look  at  the  windows  of  her  uncle's  house 
like  a  guilty  thing.  It  wasn't  hard  to 
guess  that  the  young  scamp  was  the 
favorite,  and  that  old  Hartland — well, 
that  he  didn't  take  to  Mowbray,  "and 
probably  did  favor  somebody  else.  I'm 
glad  you  think  I've  been  industrious. 
If  you  care  about  any  more  informa 
tion  in  that  line,  and  will  make  it  an 
object,  I'm  your  man.  There's  one 
thing  I'd  like." 

«  Well  ?" 

«  The  mare  that  ran  away,  and  might 
have  killed  Mrs.  Hartland,  was  sold  to 
her  husband  by  the  coachman,  Potter. 
I've  made  the  man's  acquaintance  :  he 
says  Hartland  looks  as  black  as  night  at 
him,  and  he's  expecting  every  day  to  get 
notice  to  quit  when  the  month's  out.  A 
word  from  you  would  settle  it." 

"  You  want  to  leave  the  house  where 
Ellen  Tyler  lives  ?" 

"  Next  month,  yes.  It's  no  use  for  a 
fellow  to  see  a  girl  every  day  as  long  as 
she  cares  more  for  another.  Besides,  I 
like  being  among  horses  better  than 
among  meal-bags.  And  then  Hartland 
gives  forty-five  a  month,  and  a  house 
just  across  the  street  from  the  stables. 
It's  small,  but  it's  neat,  and  it's  large 
enough  for  two." 

"  Did  you  hear  what  Mowbray  said  to 
Ellen  ?" 

"  No.  He  read  loud,  but  when  he 
spoke  to  her  it  was  so  low  I  could  not 
make  it  out." 

"  I  must  have  another  witness  before 
you  leave  the  mill.  I  want  you  to  watch 
vour  time  and  take  the  miller  himself  to 
the  spot,  so  he  can  see  them  there  to 
gether  with  his  own  eyes.  They'll  have 
a  nice  time.  Mowbray's  not  good  for 
much,  but  he's  fiery  enough  ;  and  Nelson 


Tyler,  though  he's  hard  to  rouse,  isn't  a 
man  to  stand  any  nonsense." 

"An  ugly  job  !"  said  Cassiday,  hesi 
tating  ;  and  Cranstoun  added:  "  You 
needn't  appear.  Don't  you  see  it's  for 
the  girl's  good,  Cassiday  ?  These  clan 
destine  meetings  must  be  stopped,  and 
who  can  put  a  stop  to  them  but  her 
father  ?  Do  you  want  her  to  go  on 
meeting  that  kid-gloved  fop  in  secret 
till—" 

"  Enough  said  !"  broke  in  Cassiday. 
"  I'll  see  to  it  that  the  burly  miller  has  a 
chance  at  him." 

"And  I'll  look  to  that  matter  about 
the  coachman's  place." 

Thereupon  the  two  worthies  parted. 

The  next  Sunday  afternoon  the  stout 
miller  and  Cassiday  might  have  been 
seen  not  far  from  Tyler's  mill,  on  the 
road  leading  thence  to  Chiskauga,  walk 
ing  away  from  the  mill,  as  two  men 
might  for  a  wager.  Silent  too.  In  the 
case  of  one  of  them,  however,  not  (if 
physiognomy  may  be  trusted)  for  lack 
of  thought.  The  usual  bold,  frank,  good- 
natured  look  of  the  miller  seemed  cloud 
ed  with  anxiety  or  anger,  the  lips  set, 
the  veins  of  the  forehead  swollen.  Cas 
siday  stopped  at  a  point  where  two  large 
poplars  stood  by  the  roadside  close  to 
each  other.  After  passing  back  and 
forth  along  the  road  several  times,  ex 
amining  the  ground  carefully,  he  said  : 
"We  are  in  time  :  he  has  not  returned." 

Then  the  men  struck  off  into  the 
woods  at  right  angles  to  the  road,  pro 
ceeding  north,  and,  as  they  approached 
Chewauna  Creek,  slackening  their  pace. 
\Vhen,  at  some  distance  through  the 
trees,  there  became  visible  a  gray  horse, 
saddled  and  bridled,  fastened  to  a  sap 
ling,  Cassiday  turned  to  note  the  effect 
on  his  companion.  A  flush  on  the 
cheek  and  a  twitch  of  the  right  hand,  in 
which  the  miller  carried  a  stout  hickory. 
"  Rather  him  than  me,"  thought  Cassi 
day  ;  then  to  the  miller :  "  I  did  it  for 
the  girl's  good,  Mr.  Tyler,  but  I  don't 
want  to  appear  in  it.  I'm  not  used  to 
act  the  informer,  and  you  don't  need 
me." 

« I    should  think   not,"   was   all    the 


BEYOND  THE  BREAKERS. 


other  said  as  he  strode  through  the 
brushwood  alone. 

Ellen  was  seated  on  a  low  ledge  of 
rock,  over  which  a  horseman's  cloak  had 
been  thrown  :  Movvbray  on  the  grass  at 
her  feet,  a  book  in  his  hand. 

"It  is  such  a  pleasure  to  read  to  those 
bright  eyes  of  yours,  dear  Ellen.  You 
ought  to  be  a  poet's  wife." 

The  young  girl  blushed  with  pleasure. 

"  It  was  like  sunshine  to  me,"  he  pur 
sued,  "when  you  used  to  come  three 
times  a  week  to  mother's  French  class. 
Wouldn't  your  father  let  you  come  for 
another  quarter?" 

"  No  :  he  says  I  have  learned  French 
enough  already ;  and  you  know  I  am 
nineteen." 

"Then  I  must  bring  a  French  book 
with  me  next  time  and  let  you  read  to 
me,  so  you  may  not  forget  what  you 
have  learned.  When  can  I  see  you 
again,  Ellen  ?" 

Ere  the  girl  could  reply,  the  sound  of 
a  heavy  footstep  caused  Mowbray  to 
start  to  his  feet.  Ellen  turned,  recog 
nized  her  father,  and,  acting  on  the  im 
pulse  of  the  moment,  ran  off  through 
the  underwood  in  the  direction  of  the 
mill.  The  two  men  remained  confront 
ing  each  other. 

Mowbray  was  by  no  means  deficient 
in  animal  courage,  but,  as  the  Dane  ex 
pressed  it,  "  Conscience  does  make  cow 
ards  of  us  all."  He  avoided  the  miller's 
fixed  gaze. 

"  I'm  not  surprised,"  the  latter  began, 
"that  you  can't  look  a  man  straight  in 
the  face." 

Mowbray  raised  his  eyes :  "  Why 
shouldn't  I  look  you  in  the  face  ?  I 
happened  to  be  riding  through  these 
woods  hunting  a  board-tree  to  cover  our 
wood-shed.  I  met  your  daughter  and 
stopped  to  have  a  chat  with  her.  We 
got  acquainted  when  she  was  taking 
French  lessons  from  my  mother." 

"  Yes.  I  wish  I  had  run  my  hand  in 
the  fire  rather  than  ever  suffer  the  girl  to 
darken  your  doors." 

"Have  you  a  good  board-tree  any 
where  on  your  land  that  you  want  to 
sell,  Mr.  Tyler?" 

"A    liar    too !     Do    you   go    hunting 


board-trees  all  the  time  in  the  same 
place  ? — yesterday  was  a  week,  for  in 
stance,  when  you  came  here  with  Byron's 
poems  in  your  pocket  ?" 

Mowbray  flushed  scarlet,  but  he  re 
strained  himself,  conscience-smitten; 
and  Tyler  added  :  "  You  young  gentle 
men  think  it  fine,  spirited  amusement  to 
cozen  a  poor  young  girl  that  knows  no 
better  than  to  believe  you.  You  have 
respect  neither  for  God  nor  man." 

"  Ask  Miss  Ellen  if  I  ever  treated  her 
otherwise  than  with  respect." 

«  If  you  had—" 

"I'll  abide  by  whatever  she  says. 
I'm  willing  to  suffer  any  punishment  if 
she  declares  I  ever  did.  Ask  her." 

"  I'll  ask  her  whether  you  ever  asked 
her  to  be  your  wife,  and  the  poor  child 
will  say  no,  and  will  weep  as  if  her 
heart  would  break.  Pin  not  going  to 
ask  you  that  question  :  God  knows  I 
want  no  such  upstart  as  you  for  a  son- 
in-law  ;  but  I've  another  question  I'd 
like  to  ask." 

«  Well,  sir  ?" 

"  Suppose  you  had  a  sister  and  I  a 
son.  Suppose  that  my  son  met  your 
sister  secretly,  without  your  mother's 
knowledge,  without  yours.  Suppose  you 
found  this  out,  and  that  you  had  every 
reason  to  believe  my  son  never  meant  to 
marry  your  sister — was  actually  courting, 
at  the  very  time,  a  richer  girl — and  only 
flirted  with  the  other,  and  tried  to  win 
her  foolish  heart,  for  his  own  amuse 
ment — nothing  worse,  observe  ;  and  sup 
pose  you  found  him,  one  day,  making 
love  to  her  in  a  lonely  spot,  and  telling 
her  it  was  like  sunshine  to  him  when 
ever  he  met  her.  Suppose  you  had 
happened,  that  day,  to  have  a  good 
stout  hickory  with  you,  what  do  you 
think  would  have  been  the  probable 
result  ?" 

"  But  the  case  is  not  the  same." 

"Yes,  I  know.  I'm  a  clod:  you'ie 
some  of  the  porcelain  of  the  earth  ;  or 
at  least  you  think  you  are,  and  that 
often  answers  just  as  well.  What  you 
do  to  me  and  mine  I  have  no  right  to 
do  to  you  and  yours.  That  doctrine 
may  answer  in  Russia,  where  they  sell 
the  working-people  along  with  the  land 


BEYOND  THE  BREAKERS. 


they  live  on.*  It  won't  do  here.  What's 
the  difference  between  us,  Mr.  Mow- 
bray  ?  Nobody  ever  asks  me  twice  for 
a  debt ;  and  the  story  goes  that's  more 
than  you  can  say.  There's  not  a  neigh 
bor  I  have  that  won't  bear  witness  I 
never  willfully  injured  him  or  his.  You 
know  there's  one  neighbor,  at  least,  who 
•would  lie  if  he  said  that  of  you.  Are 
you  more  respectable  than  I  am  ?  Not 
in  God's  eyes  :  I'm  not  at  all  sure  if 
you  are  in  man's,  either.  Now  I  want 
to  know  about  that  son  of  mine,  and 
what  would  happen  if  you  caught  him 
courting  your  sister,  and  you  with  a 
stout  cane  in  your  hand  ?" 

"  You  won't  listen  to  what  I  have  to 
say  to  you,  and  I  don't  choose  to 
answer  a  question  when  it  implies  a 
threat." 

«  Oh,  you  don't  ?" 

"  No  gentleman  would." 

"John  Mowbray,  you  shall  have  a 
piece  of  my  mind.  I  suppose  you  would 
scorn  to  break  into  my  house  and  get 
at  my  strong-box,  and,  if  you  found  a 
couple  of  hundred  dollars  there,  to  go 
off  with  it  under  the  cloud  of  night.  If 
you  did  play  me  a  trick  like  that,  you 
wouldn't  deny  that  you  deserved  the 
penitentiary  ;  and  if  anybody  saw  you 
at  such  work,  you'd  be  very  sure  to  get 
there.  Now  I  think  a  midnight  thief  a 
decent,  respectable  man  compared  with 
you.  He  risks  his  life  to  get  my  money: 
there's  some  spunk  in  that ;  and  he  may 
need  it — who  knows  ? — to  feed  a  wife 
and  children.  Then  in  a  month  or  two 
I  can  make  it  up  again.  But  you  steal 
from  me  my  very  life — my  child's  heart, 
my  child's  honor.  You  do  this  in  mere 
wantonness  of  purpose,  out  of  no  need, 
only  out  of  profligate  selfishness.  She 
trusts  you,  and  you  deceive  her :  she 
loves  you.  and  you  betray  her.  None 
but  a  villain  would  do  that :  none  but  a 
base,  treacherous  coward  would  do  that. 
John  Mowbray  you  are  both  !" 

And  the  old  man,  in  his  hot  indigna 
tion,  unconsciously  raised  the  cane  he 
held  in  his  hand. 

Up  to  this  point,  Mowbray,  exceed 
ingly  desirous  to  avoid  a  brawl  with 

*The  Russian  serfs  were  not  emancipated  until  1862. 


Ellen's  father,  had  done  his  best  to  curb 
his  temper,  though  his  blood  boiled 
when  the  miller  first  called  him  a  liar. 
But  the  villain  and  the  coward  !  And 
the  menace  of  the  cane  !  It  was  more 
than  his  father's  son  could  bear.  His 
rage,  long  pent  up,  burst  all  bounds. 
Scarcely  knowing  what  he  did,  he  drew 
from  a  pocket  a  large  spring- knife, 
snapped  it  open  and  rushed  on  Tyler. 

The  miller,  who  had  kept  his  eye  on 
him,  stood  quite  still  and  threw  away 
his  cane.  With  a  sudden  jerk  of  his 
left  hand  he  clinched,  with  the  grip  of 
a  vice,  Mowbray's  uplifted  arm  ;  then 
with  his  right  he  seized  the  blade  of  the 
knife,  wrenching  it  from  the  other's 
grasp  with  a  force  that  sprained  the 
wrist ;  then,  letting  him  go,  he  snap 
ped  the  thick  blade  in  two  as  if  it  had 
been  a  pipe-stem,  pitched  the  pieces 
over  the  cliff  into  Chewauna  Creek,  and 
signed  contemptuously  to  the  young 
man,  saying : 

« Get  ye  gone  for  a  fool !  What 
business  had  you  to  meddle  with  edge- 
tools  ?" 

If  Mowbray's  blood  had  not  been  in 
a  ferment,  he  might  have  appreciated 
the  generosity  that  let  him  off  so  easily. 
But  he  was  maddened  ;  and  he  grappled 
fiercely  with  his  opponent,  his  passion 
lending  him  a  force  which  took  the 
miller  by  surprise.  Mowbray  struck  him 
two  or  three  violent  blows.  Then,  for 
the  first  time,  the  animal  in  Tyler  was 
fairly  roused.  For  a  minute  or  two  he 
had  to  do  his  best ;  but  he  was  a  vete 
ran  wrestler,  who  in  his  youth  had  never 
been  beaten  ;  and  age  had  but  little 
diminished  his  extraordinary  strength. 
Closing  with  Mowbray,  in  a  few  minutes 
he  had  tripped  him  up,  caught  him,  as  he 
was  falling,  in  his  arms,  and  borne  him, 
despite  his  struggles,  to  the  verge  of  the 
cliff.  It  \vas  a  sheer  descent  of  full  forty 
feet  to  the  bank  of  the  creek,  and  that 
was  covered  with  sharp-angled  rocks. 
Had  Mowbray  at  that  terrible  moment 
pleaded  humbly  for  his  life,  it  is  just 
possible  he  might  have  lost  it  through 
the  contempt  he  would  have  inspired  ; 
but  pride  and  passion  overcame  fear:  he 
said  not  a  word,  and  when  he  had  ex- 


TYLER    AND    MOWBRAY. 


BETOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


93 


linusted  himself  by  terrible  but  fruitless 
effort,  and  felt  in  that  clutch  of  steel  tjiat 
he  was  overmastered,  he  submitted  si 
lently  to  his  fate.  Nelson  Tyler  stood, 
for  a  few  moments,  as  if  irresolute — it 
was  no  bad  subject  for  a  group  of  Her 
cules  and  Antaeus — then,  turning  from 
the  precipice,  he  flung  the  young  man  on 
the  ground  with  stunning  force.  In  fall 
ing,  Mowbray's  head  struck  against  a 
stray  root  of  a  tree  just  visible  above 
the  ground,  and  he  lay  insensible. 

The  miller  stood  looking  at  him, 
«•  He's  had  enough,"  he  said ;  then 
hastily  descending  to  the  creek,  by  a 
circuitous  path  well  known  to  him,  he 


brought  back  a  hat-full  of  water  just  as 
Mowbray  had  recovered  consciousness 
so  as  to  sit  up.  The  wound  on  his 
head  was  trifling,  and  the  cold  water 
soon  revived  him.  Not  a  word  passed 
between  the  men  except  the  question  : 
"  Can  you  ride  home  ?"  and  the  answer: 
«  Yes." 

Tyler  brought  the  horse,  assisted 
Mowbray  to  mount ;  and,  as  he  gave 
him  the  reins,  he  said,  in  his  deep  bass 
tones : 

"Thank  God,  young  man,  that  He 
preserved  you  from  death  and  me  from 
murder." 


PART    V. 


CHAPTER   XV. 
ELLINOR   ETHELRIDGE. 

CELIA  told  Leoline  the  exact  truth 
when  she  said,  after  the  conversa 
tion  with  Sydenham,  that  she  was  return 
ing  home  hopeful  and  encouraged.  But  a 
few  words,  how  wise  and  encouraging 
soever,  so  long  as  they  fail  to  remove 
daily-recurring  annoyances,  afford  alle 
viation  only.  One  cannot  take  a  fire  in 
one's  hand  by  "thinking  on  the  frosty 
Caucasus."  Hartland's  grim  looks  were 
real  things — as  real  as  frost  or  rainy 
weather — for  they  chilled  her  more  than 
either.  Sydenham's  mediation,  she  saw, 
had  only  irritated  her  guardian  ;  but  when 
his  mysterious  prescription  reached  her, 
on  the  morning  of  her  birth-day,  in  the 
shape  of  a  beautiful  pony,  it  proved  an 
habitual  comfort,  in  substantial  form, 
that  almost  offset  the  grim  looks.  Bess 
— so  she  named  the  little  mare — became 
a  petted  favorite  at  once ;  and  the  spirit 
ed  creature  returned  her  mistress'  daily 
caresses,  after  a  time,  with  almost  hu 
man  affection.  She  would  follow  Celia 
everywhere,  though  at  large,  even 
through  a  crowd. 

Morbid  thoughts  usually  spring  either 
from  feeble  health  or  from  idleness.  It 
is  a  difficult  matter  to  get  rid  of  such  by 
sitting  down  and  seeking  to  reason  one's 

94 


self  out  of  them.  We  do  better  to  re 
move  the  cause  ;  and  this  we  can  often 
effect  by  some  simple  arrangement  of 
external  circumstances.  This  young  girl, 
while  she  reaped  the  advantages,  suffered 
also  the  evils,  which  money  brings.  With 
a  competence  already  assured,  she  was 
subjected  to  no  wholesome  demand  for 
exertion  of  mind  or  body.  She  had 
finished  her  education,  or  what  is  called 
such  by  those  who  forget  that  the  de 
velopment  and  cultivation  of  our  faculties 
go  on  not  only  through  the  life  which 
now  is,  but  doubtless  through  that  which 
is  to  come.  Had  she  been  at  the  head 
of  her  own  household,  a  sense  of  duty 
would  have  kept  her  busy ;  and  the 
actively  busy  have  no  time  to  be  senti 
mental.  But  she  had  no  vocation — 
nothing  imperatively  calling  her  off  from 
trifles  and  summoning  to  the  realities  of 
life. 

Sydenham,  even  if  he  did  not  realize 
all  this,  had  prescribed  wisely.  Bess 
became  educator  as  well  as  physician. 
As  Celia  gradually  contracted  the  habit 
of  riding  out  for  an  hour  or  two  every 
fine  day,  the  effect  on  health  and  spirits 
was  notably  salutary.  She  dwelt  less  on 
petty  annoyances  than  formerly.  On 
horseback  she  seemed  to  get  away  from 
them.  The  custom  of  the  country  per 
mitted  her  to  ride  unattended  ;  and  when 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


95 


out  in  the  woods  her  thoughts  took  freer 
scope  and  a  fresher  tone. 

After  a  time  she  found  a  companion 
with  whom  to  ride — one  who  was  at 
once  a  puzzle  and  a  pleasure  to  her. 

In  most  villages  there  is  to  be  found 
some  mysterious  personage,  whom  the 
villagers  cannot  exactly  make  out ;  who 
dropped  down  among  them,  they  scarcely 
know  how  ;  with  whose  antecedents  they 
are  very  imperfectly  acquainted :  some 
one,  perhaps,  whose  manners  and  bear 
ing  are  at  variance  with  his  apparent 
circumstances,  and  who  becomes,  by- 
turns,  an  object  of  curiosity,  of  admira 
tion  and  of  suspicion. 

Nor  was  Chiskauga  without  her 
sphinx's  riddle,  welcomed  by  village 
gossip.  It  had  made  its  appearance 
about  five  years  before  the  present  epoch 
of  our  story,  in  graceful  guise — to  wit, 
in  the  form  of  a  young  lady  of  very 
striking  appearance :  not  pretty,  cer 
tainly.  Handsome  ?  Well,  one  scarcely 
knew  whether  to  call  her  so  or  not. 
Stylish-looking  she  certainly  was  in  face 
and  in  person,  though  her  manners  were 
very  quiet,  even  reserved.  Her  features, 
though  expressing  dignity  and  intelli 
gence,  were  irregular,  but  no  one  would 
call  her  plain  who  looked  in  her  beauti 
ful  soft  eyes.  They  were  a  little  dreamy. 
Those  might  have  thought  her  proud 
who  did  not  note  how  uniformly  unob 
trusive  her  deportment  was.  Did  these 
expressive  features  indicate  spirit  ?  One 
would  have  said  so  but  for  a  despondent 
look  that  was  habitual  to  her. 

She  had  brought  a  letter  to  Mr.  Syden- 
ham,  introducing  Miss  Ellinor  Ethel- 
ridge  from  England,  an  orphan.  It  was 
from  a  Mr.  Williams,  an  elderly  Quaker 
gentleman  of  Philadelphia,  with  whom 
Sydenham  had  accidentally  made  ac 
quaintance  at  Pisa.  They  had  traveled 
together  to  Florence  and  Rome,  and 
Sydenham  had  been  delighted  with  the 
benevolence  and  the  inquiring  spirit  of 
his  new  acquaintance. 

What  the  exact  tenor  of  Mr.  Williams' 
letter  was  did  not  transpire,  except  that 
it  contained  a  warm  recommendation  of 
the  bearer  as  a  person  in  every  way  well 
qualified  tu  fill  the  post  of  teacher— a 


situation,  it  appeared,  which  the  young 
lady  desired  to  obtain  in  some  quiet 
country  place. 

Sydenham's  influence  and  exertions 
soon  procured  her  a  school,  to  which  the 
principal  people  in  the  place  gradually 
sent  their  children.  He  was  himself  a 
frequent  visitor,  and  he  was  pleased  and 
surprised  with  the  good  judgment  and 
ability  which  Miss  Ethelridge  displayed. 
No  such  teacher  had  ever  before  ap 
peared  in  Chiskauga.  Aside  from  music, 
in  which  she  was  not  a  proficient,  her 
qualifications  were  admirable  —  among 
them  a  familiar  acquaintance  with  French, 
which  she  spoke  with  the  fluency  of 
a  native.  This  brought  about  an  ac 
quaintance  with  Dr.  Meyrac's  family, 
and  after  a  time  they  received  her  as 
boarder.  With  Madame  Meyrac,  fas 
tidious  in  her  likings,  she  became  a  great 
favorite. 

Celia,  desiring  to  perfect  herself  in 
French,  had  taken  private  lessons  from 
her  ;  and,  notwithstanding  a  five  years' 
difference  in  their  ages,  was  strongly 
attracted  to  her  teacher.  For  a  year  or 
two  her  advances  had  been  met,  on  the 
part  of  Miss  Ethelridge,  with  a  degree 
of  coldness  which  would  have  repelled 
-her  in  almost  any  one  else  ;  but  the  soft 
eyes,  with  their  spiritual  light,  and  the 
cultivated  tones  of  a  low,  sweet  voice, 
drew  her  on  with  a  strange  fascina 
tion,  and  her  persistent  love  thawed  the 
frost  at  last.  Beneath,  she  found  rare 
qualities — a  noble  spirit,  generous  and 
impulsive,  covered,  however,  with  a  reti 
cence  so  strict  that  Celia  knew  no 
more  of  this  stranger's  early  history  up 
to  the  time  of  which  we  are  now  writing 
than  the  rest  of  the  Chiskauga  world 
did.  But  if  this  woman,  to  others  grave 
and  undemonstrative,  withheld  even  from 
Celia  her  confidence,  she  granted  her  at 
last,  in  unstinted  measure,  affection — 
unwillingly,  it  seemed,  as  if  she  were 
yielding  to  a  reprehensible  weakness,  but 
with  all  the  warmth  of  a  genial  nature 
breaking  over  the  bounds  of  self-imposed 
restraint.  And  for  the  little  kindnesses 
which  Celia's  position  enabled  her  to 
bestow  she  returned  a  measure  of  grati 
tude  out  of  proportion  to  the  benefits 


56 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


conferred.  One  of  these,  which  the  girl 
had  recently  offered,  seemed  to  touch  her 
more  than  any  other  she  had  received. 

It  happened  that  Cranstoun,  in  fulfill 
ment  of  his  promise  to  Cassiday,  had 
spoken  of  the  latter  to  Hartland;  and 
having  exhibited  the  certificate  which 
the  groom  had  received  from  Rarey  at 
testing  his  ability  as  horse-trainer,  he 
persuaded  Hartland  to  try  the  new 
comer's  skill  jn  reclaiming  Brunette,  the 
runaway.  So  satisfactory  had  been  the 
result  that  when  a  young  city  friend  of 
Celia's,  a  timid  rider  but  fond  of  the 
exercise,  came  for  a  day  or  two  to  visit 
them,  the  uncle  permitted  his  niece  to 
ride  Brunette  and  to  lend  Bess  to  her 
visitor.  The  "  brown  beauty  "  behaved 
admirably,  and  both  young  ladies  came 
home  delighted  with  the  trip. 

This  suggested  to  Celia  a  plan,  to 
which,  as  Mr.  Hartland  had  somewhat 
demurred  to  her  solitary  strolls  on  horse 
back,  she  hoped  to  obtain  his  assent. 
One  evening,  when  her  uncle,  with  infi 
nite  self-satisfaction,  had  been  exhibiting 
to  her  a  magnificent  beetle  yet  unde- 
scribed,  and  one  of  the  finest  specimens 
he  had  ever  added  to  his  collection,  her 
instinct  bade  her  avail  herself  of  the 
rare  good-humor  which  her  praises  of 
the  insect's  brilliant  colors  had  called 
out.  She  broached  her  proposal,  which 
was,  that  she  might  be  allowed,  occasion 
ally,  on  days  when  her  aunt  did  not  re 
quire  the  dearborn,  to  have  the  use  of 
Brunette  for  Miss  Ethelridge,  so  that 
that  lady  might  join  in  her  rides. 

Hartland,  after  reflecting  a  little,  gave 
a  hearty  assent ;  for  which  Celia  would 
have  been  more  grateful  had  she  been 
quite  sure  that  his  ready  compliance 
with  her  wish  was  due  to  kindness  alone. 
She  was  thankful,  however,  especially  to 
her  aunt,  who  joined  warmly  in  the  plan 
and  placed  Brunette  at  her  disposal  dur 
ing  three  clays  a  week. 

At  the  German  saddler,  Hentzler's, 
Celia  early  next  morning  picked  out  a 
saddle,  bridle  and  accoutrements,  the 
exact  counterparts  of  her  own,  and  her 
self  accompanied  the  man  who  carried 
them  to  Dr.  Meyrac's.  Ellinor  was 
absent,  but  came  up  to  her  room,  where 


Celia  awaited  her,  a  few  minutes  later. 
Her  first  look  of  surprise  at  sight  of  her 
friend's  gift,  which  had  been  deposited 
on  the  floor,  changed  to  one  of  sadness 
— it  seemed  almost  of  pain — so  suddenly 
that  Celia,  disconcerted,  presented  her 
offering  with  hesitation. 

"  For  me  !"  was  all  Ellinor  said,  in  an 
incredulous  tone — "  for  me  !"  And  when 
Celia  disclosed  her  project,  telling  what 
a  pleasure  it  would  be  to  have  such  com 
panionship  in  her  rides,  she  was  startled 
by  the  effect  her  words  produced.  She 
had  never  seen  her  friend  give  way  to 
deep  emotion  in  all  the  five  years  of  their 
acquaintance  ;  and  it  was  evident  that 
Ellinor  tried  hard  now  for  self-control. 
In  vain  !  The  tears  would  come — the 
sobs  could  not  be  restrained. 

"Celia,"  she  said,  at  last — "darling 
Celia,  I  used  to  have  friends  who  called 
me  Ellie :  I  have  none  now.  They 
used  to  plan  for  my  happiness  as  you  do 
— as  no  one  else  has  done  since — since 
a  dear  friend  died.  If  you  treat  me  as 
you  are  doing  to-day,  I  must  be  Ellie  to 
you  — Ellie,  dear  one,  Ellie!  What 
years  since  I  heard  my  name  !" 

Celia,  startled  by  this  unexpected 
burst  of  feeling,  threw  her  arms  about 
Ellinor's  neck,  called  her  « Ellie,"  and 
"darling,"  and  other  pet  names  besides, 
and  then  cried  heartily,  as  if  she  had 
just  lost  a  friend  instead  of  finding  one. 

Her  tears  arrested  Ellinor's.  She 
took  the  excited  girl  in  her  arms  and 
soothed  her  as  a  mother  might. 

"Dear  child!"  she  said:  "how  self 
ish  I  am,  giving  pain  to  you  when  you 
were  recalling  to  me  dreams  of  pleasure  ! 
I  wish  so  much  to  gweyou  pleasure  ;  and 
then  your  gift  was  such  a  temptation  !" 

Celia  looked  up  and  met  the  sad,  long 
ing  eyes  : 

"  You  are  not  going  to  let  me  call  you 
Ellie,  and  then  refuse  the  only  little  bit 
of  comfort  I  have  the  chance  to  offer 
you  ?  And  the  kindness  is  to  me,  not 
to  you.  Please,  please  believe  me  ! 
there's  nobody — not  even  Leoline — that 
I  feel  drawn  to  as  to  you." 

"  Yes,  that's  it.     That  is  all  wrong." 

"  All  wrong  that  I  should  love  you, 
Ellie  ?" 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


97 


<'  Wrong  that  I  should  have  asked 
you  to  call  me  Ellie,  as  things  stand. 
What  do  you  know  of  me,  Celia  ?  Who 
am  I  ?  Why  did  I  come  here  alone  ?  I 
was  but  twenty  when  I  reached  Chis- 
kauga,  and  I  have  had  dear  friends.  Yet 
I  am  sought  for  by  no  one,  cared  for  by 
no  one.  I  scarcely  receive  a  Jetter — 
never  but  from  one  person,  and  upon 
him  I  have  no  claim.  You  have  given 
me  your  love,  from  pity  maybe,  or  be 
cause  your  heart  is  warm  and  trusting, 
and  you  knew  I  needed  love.  But  have 
I  a  right  to  accept  it  and  explain  noth 
ing  ?  You  are  so  young  and  guileless  ! 
You  do  not  know  the  world  and  its  false 
pretences  and  its  crooked  ways.  Ought 
I  to  take  advantage  of  that  ?" 

"  I  know  you  are  an  orphan  as  I  am  ; 
and  I  dare  say  there  was  no  uncle  and 
no  kind  aunt,  like  mine,  to  take  the  or 
phan  in  and  care  for  her.  Is  not  that 
enough  ?  Have  I  ever  asked  to  know 
more  ?" 

«  Never  :  that  is  the  worst  of  it.  If 
you  had  been  inquisitive,  I  should  have 
had  an  excuse  for  reticence." 

"It  needs  none.  I  have  known  you 
five  years,  Ellie,  and  have  loved  you 
nearly  as  long.  If  you  are  not  good, 
nobody  is." 

The  tears  glistened  again  in  Ellinor's 
eyes. 

"If  I  live,"  she  said,  "you  shall 
know,  some  day,  whether  I  am  worthy 
of  your  love  or  not.  Keep  that  beauti 
ful  faith  of  yours  till  then.  We  grow 
old  when  we  lose  it.  God,  in  his  mer 
cy,  send  that  your  trust  in  his  creatures 
may  never  be  betrayed  !" 

"Mr.  Sydenham  said,  the  other  day, 
that  you  had  done  so  much  good  here — 
that  your  pupils,  as  they  grew  up,  would 
be  an  honor  to  the  place." 

"Thank  God  !"  Then,  after  a  pause  : 
"  When  they  are  mothers  of  families  and 
I  an  old  woman,  I  shall  have  friends  in 
them." 

"  But  as  you  are  a  young  woman  still, 
and  working  hard  for  them,  you  ought 
to  have  a  ride  now  and  then  to  do  you 
good.  Macbeth  asked  that  'doctor  of 
physic,'  with  the  long  black  gown,  if 
he  could  not  'minister  to  a  mind  dis- 
7 


eased  ?'  I  think  Bess  can.  That's  my 
experience." 

"  What  do  you  know  about  '  a  mind 
diseased,'  little  pet?" 

Celia  blushed :  she  would  have  been 
ashamed  to  talk  of  her  sorrows  to  one 
like  Ellinor  —  forsaken,  alone.  The 
quick  eye  of  the  latter  saw  and  inter 
preted  the  emotion  at  once.  "  Forgive 
me,"  she  said  ;  then  picking  up  the 
bridle  Celia  had  brought  for  her,  with 
its  white  web-reins  and  blue  silk  front 
let  :  "  Where  did  you  find  anything  so 
pretty  as  this  ?" 

"  Mr.  Sydenham  had  a  set  of  horse 
equipments  made,  or  sent  for,  expressly 
for  me,  by  Mr.  Hentzler,  and  this  is  a 
duplicate  set  which  the  saddler  got  up, 
or  procured,  at  the  same  time,  thinking, 
I  suppose,  that  Bess  would  set  off  mine 
to  advantage,  and  that  somebody  might 
fancy  the  pattern." 

"  One  recognizes  Mr.  Sydenham's 
taste  :  it  is  faultless.  Every  article  is 
perfect,  even  to  this  beautiful  riding- 
whip  with  its  knobs  wound  with  silver 
wire.  Ah  !  from  Swayne  &  Adeney  ! 
I  thought  I  detected  London  work. 
The  covered  buckles  of  that  bridle  were 
never  made  in  Chiskauga." 

"  I  am  so  glad  it  all  suits  you." 

"  I  could  not  help  admiring  it,  but  it 
does  not  suit  me,  dear  Celia."  She 
stopped,  seeing  how  much  pain  she 
gave  :  "  You  ought  to  have  a  companion 
in  your  rides,  but  there  is  Leoline,  nearly 
your  own  age,  in  your  own  rank — a  far 
more  fitting  associate  than  I." 

"  Leoline  is  a  dear,  good  girl,  merry 
as  she  can  be,  and  I  like  her  ever  so 
much.  Now  and  then  she  rides  with 
me — more  usually  with  her  father.  But 
I  want  you:  I  need  you,  Ellie." 

«  Me,  dear  child  ?" 

"  Yes,  you  do  me  good.  I  feel  better 
and  quieter  when  I've  had  a  real  chat 
with  you.  And  we  can  have  such  long, 
long  talks  on  horseback  in  the  woods. 
Don't  you  like  riding  ?" 

"  I  used  to  like  it  very  much." 

"  Did  you  ever  take  riding-lessons  ?" 

"  For  nearly  two  years,  before  I  left 
London.  It  was  my  chief  amusement 
then." 


98 


BETOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


"  Ah  !:'— Celia  took  her  friend's  hand 
and  patted  it  coaxingly — "  now  do  be  a 
good  girl,  Ellie.  I've  been  wanting  so 
much,  for  two  years  past,  to  take  riding- 
jessons.  I  know  I  need  them.  Mr. 
Sydenharn  gave  me  some  hints  about 
my  seat  in  the  saddle  :  I'm  certain  he 
thinks  I  ride  badly.  You  have  praised 
me  for  my  progress  in  French.  Who 
knows  but  what  I  may  do  as  well  in 
riding  ?" 

Strange  !  Still  that  despondent  look. 
Celia  read  refusal  in  her  friend's  face. 

"Ellie,"  she  continued,  "I'm  not  too 
proud  to  accept  a  gift  from  you.  Won't 
you  make  me  a  present  of  a  quarter's 
riding-lessons  ?" 

"  Little  plotter  !"  It  was  said  with  a 
sad,  sweet  smile,  but  something  in  the 
tone  or  look  convinced  Celia  that  she 
had  not  reached  the  depth  of  her  friend's 
objections,  whencesoever  arising.  She 
made  one  last  effort  : 

"There's  another  reason  why  I  want 
you  ;"  and  with  that  she  blushed  a 
little,  and  Ellinor's  expression  changed. 
"  My  guardian  is  a  good  man,  but  he  is 
not  a  cordial  one.  Yet  he  agreed  cor 
dially  to  this  proposal  of  mine  when  I 
spoke  to  him  about  it.  I  think  I  know 
the  reason.  There  is  a  young  man 
against  whom  Mr.  Hartland  has  very 
strong  prejudices  ;  and  he  imagines  that 
I  shall  not  be  able  to  meet  him  so  often 
if  you  and  I  ride  together  sometimes." 
«  It  is  Evelyn  Mowbray." 
"Yes." 

«  Do  you  wish  to  meet  him  alone  ?" 
"  Not  often.     We  can  be  friends  only, 
for  two   or  three  years  at  least ;  and  I 
am  so  anxious   to  do  nothing  that  shall 
offend  my  guardian." 

Ellinor  sat  silent  for  a  minute  or  two. 
"  God  forgive  me  if  I  do  wrong  !"  was 
the  thought  which  occupied  her.  "  You 
are  right,"  she  said  at  last  :  "  it  is  best 
not  to  meet  Mr.  Mowbray  too  often." 

"  Then  help  me  do  right — there's  a 
darling  !  See  !"  taking  up  the  riding- 
whip  :  "  here's  a  tiny  silver  shield : 
mine  has  exactly  such  a  one,  and  Mr. 
Sydenham  had  my  initials  engraved  on 
it.  There's  just  room  for  'Ellie:'  it 
won't  hold  'Ellinor.'  I'm  going  to  take 


it  to  the   watch-maker's — you  know  he 
engraves  nicely." 

"  I  don't  need  a  memento  of  this  day, 
Celia." 

"  Well,  I  shall  carry  off  your  whip 
with  me,  at  all  events  ;  and — let  me  see, 
to-morrow  is  Saturday  :  you  do  not  keep 
school,  and  we  can  take  the  morning 
for  it — to-morrow  at  half-past  eight  I'll 
be  here.  Potter  shall  call  for  your  sad 
dle  and  bridle  at  once  :  I  only  had  them 
brought  here  to  show  to  you.  It's  your 
hour  for  school,  Ellie :  you  haven't  time  to 
argue  with  me  any  longer.  Good-bye!" 
The  little  strategist  had  carried  the 
citadel  by  assault.  Ellinor  let  her  go, 
saying  only,  "  It's  such  a  comfort  to  be 
able  to  teach  somebody  without  asking 
payment  in  return  !  You  shall  have 
your  riding-lessons,  Celia." 

Ellinor  mounted  Brunette  next  day. 
Even  Celia's  unpracticed  eye  detected 
the  finished  grace  with  which  she  rode. 
Whether  she  felt  the  inspiration  which 
Bulwer  may  have  realized  when  he  de 
clared  that,  "give  him  but  a  light  rein 
and  a  free  bound,  he  was  Cato,  Cicero, 
Caesar,"  I  know  not.  But,  as  they 
cantered  swiftly  through  the  woodland 
glades,  her  eye  appeared  to  kindle  with 
a  spirit,  and  her  stately  figure  to  dilate 
with  a  commanding  power,  which  Celia 
had  never  seen  in  her  before.  Some 
old  character,  hidden  till  now  under  the 
veil  of  grief  or  despondency,  seemed 
emerging.  The  village  teacher  was  trans 
formed.  For  a  time  her  thoughts  had 
strayed  off,  far  off,  beyond  her  control. 

Then,  awaking  to  the  present,  she 
drew  rein.  She  was  in  the  Chiskauga 
woods  once  more. 

"The  elbows  a  little  closer  to  the 
body,  Celia,"  she  said.  "  That  is  well : 
if  it  seem  stiff  at  first,  the  feeling  will 
wear  off  by  habit.  I  think  I  had  better 
knit  up  that  bridoon  rein  for  you  till 
you  obtain  more  complete  management 
of  the  bit." 

"  I  thought  that  was  the  snaffle  rein/' 
"A  snaffle,  as  my  riding-master  took 
pains  to  tell  me,  has  a  bar  outside  of 
the  ring,  on  each  side,  and  it  is  used 
alone:  the  bridoon,  you  see,  has  none— 
it  is  used  along  with  the  bit,  but  inde- 


BEYOND    THE   BREAKERS. 


99 


pendently  of  it.  The  bridle  hand  lower, 
dear.  That  is  important,  especially  in 
rapid  riding." 

That  new  creature  whom  Celia  had 
admired,  curbing  her  horse  in  queenly 
fashion  beside  her,  a  few  moments  be 
fore,  was  gone.  It  was  again  Miss 
Ethelridge,  the  village  teacher,  pains 
taking,  with  an  eye  on  her  pupil  and 
giving  her  advice  from  time  to  time. 
As  they  were  approaching  home  on  their 
return,  she  said,  with  a  smile  :  "  My 
riding-pupil  will  do  me  as  much  credit 
as  my  pupil  in  French  did."  Then, 
with  changed  tone  and  manner,  she 
added  :  "  You  have  given  me  such  a  day 
as  I  have  not  had  for  years,  dear  child 
— for  years  !  Dante  was  only  half  right 
when  he  spoke  of  the  gwef  we  suffer 
by  recalling  happy  times  in  the  past." 

Two  days  a  week  was  all  Celia  could 
persuade  Ellinor  to  agree  to.  "  I  took 
only  two  riding-lessons  each  week  my 
self,"  she  said.  The  second  day,  when 
they  were  about  to  mount,  she  asked 
Celia,  «  Would  you  mind  letting  me  ride 
Bess  a  little  ?" 

"  You  shall  have  her  most  willingly." 

"  She  doesn't  rein  back  readily,  and 
she  should  be  taught  to  passage." 

"  To  passage  ?" 

"To  move  off  sideways,  her  head 
turned  just  a  little,  so  as  to  let  one  foot 
cross  in  front  of  the  other.  It  is  very 
convenient  sometimes,  when  one  is  riding 
in  company." 

They  were  not  to  have  their  talk  to 
themselves  this  time.  After  a  ride  of 
some  miles  in  the  woods,  they  heard 
galloping  behind  them,  and  turning  saw 
Ethan  Hartland  and  John  Evelyn  Mow- 
bray  approaching.  Celia  was  a  little 
surprised,  for  the  young  men  were  sel 
dom  seen  together.  Mowbray  rode  up 
at  once  beside  Celia,  and  Hartland,  with 
apparent  hesitation,  slowly  moved  his 
horse  to  the  other  side. 

"  Cousin  Celia,"  he  said,  «  we  had  no 
intention  of  intruding  on  you  and  Miss 
Ethelridge.  Mr.  Mowbray  asked  me  to 
show  him  a  piece  of  land  belonging  to 
Mr.  Sydenham  which  he  thinks  of 
purchasing." 

Ellinor,  after  a  single  glance    at  the 


speaker,  turned  quickly  to  Mowbray, 
who  spoke,  almost  as  if  her  look  needed 
a  reply  :  "  Yes,  mother  finds  cord-wood 
getting  to  be  so  expensive  that  she  pro 
poses  to  buy  a  bit  of  woodland,  from 
which  we  can  supply  ourselves." 

They  rode  on,  a  little  way,  four 
abreast,  then  came  to  a  spot  where  the 
road,  cut  into  a  hill  and  flanked  with 
ditches,  narrowed  considerably. 

"We  crowd  you,  Miss  Ethelridge," 
said  Hartland,  reining  back. 

"  Perhaps  we  had  better  ride  on," 
said  Mowbray,  and,  without  waiting  for 
Celia's  answer,  he  put  his  horse  to  a 
canter,  Brunette  keeping  up.  Ellinor 
checked  Bess,  prompted  by  the  evident 
incivility  of  leaving  Hartland  behind ; 
but  the  animal — much  to  her  surprise, 
for  it  had  hitherto  seemed  perfectly  do 
cile — reared,  made  one  or  two  dashes 
to  the  front,  then,  when  checked,  stamped 
impatiently,  neighing  the  while ;  and, 
when  put  in  motion  again,  curveted  so 
violently  that  a  rider  with  less  practiced 
hand  and  less  assured  seat  might  well 
have  been  in  danger.  But  Ellinor,  tho 
roughly  trained,  sat  with  skill  and  self- 
possession,  such  as  is  said  to  have  de 
ceived  the  poor  Peruvians  into  the  be 
lief  that  Pizarro  and  his  followers  formed 
a  portion  of  the  animals  they  rode.' 
Hartland  forgot  his  apprehensions  for 
her  safety  in  admiration  of  her  horse 
manship  ;  but  when,  after  the  mare  was 
reduced  to  submission,  she  still  fretted 
against  the  bit  as  impatiently  as  ever,  he 
said  : 

"  Celia  has  stopped,  alarmed,  I  think, 
for  your  safety,  Miss  Ethelridge.  Had 
we  not  better  ride  up  ?  The  road  is 
wider  now." 

"  It  is  spoiling  Bess  to  let  her  have 
her  own  way,"  replied  Ellinor  ;  yet  she 
acted  on  the  suggestion  and  touched  the 
mare  with  the  whip.  No  dog  ever 
showed  joy  more  plainly  at  his  master's 
return  than  did  the  high-spirited  animal 
when  once  more  by  her  mistress'  side. 
She  rubbed  her  head  against  her  as  if 
seeking  the  accustomed  caress.  Celia 
could  not  withhold  it,  but  she  said :  "  I 
am  ashamed  of  you,  Bess  :  how  could 
you  behave  so  ?" 


100 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


It  seemed  almost  as  if  the  creature 
understood  the  tone  of  reproach.  She 
drooped  her  head  and  submissively 
obeyed  the  slightest  touch  of  the  rein. 

"  Have  you  had  any  difficulty  in  de 
taching  her  from  Brunette  when  you 
were  riding  her,  Celia  ?"  said  Ellinor, 
thoughtfully. 

"  Not  the  least :  I  have  separated 
them  again  and  again,  and  Bess  has 
always  obeyed  at  once.  I  cannot  under 
stand  her  behavior  to-day." 

"I  can.  It  is  not  her  comrade,  it  is 
her  mistress,  she  is  unwilling  to  leave. 
I  knew  just  such  an  instance  once,"  in 
a  low  voice.  »  Poor  Bess  !"  she  added, 
patting  the  mare's  neck,  "  if  that  is  your 
only  fault — "  What  memory  was  it  that 
gave  so  touching  a  tone  to  the  broken 
words  ?  Whatever  it  was,  it  was  harshly 
dispelled  the  next  moment. 

"  Celia,"  said  Mowbray,  "  it  will  never 
do  to  let  that  pony  get  so  willful.  You'll 
have  no  peace  with  her.  She  ought  to 
be  broken  of  such  tricks  at  once.  I 
wish  you'd  let  me  take  her  in  hand  for 
a  day  or  two." 

Ellinor's  eyes  had  been  fixed  on  Mow- 
bray  during  this  speech,  and  she  turned 
to  Celia  as  if  anxious  for  her  reply. 

»  Thank  you,  Evelyn,  but  I  prefer  to 
manage  her  myself.  Miss  Ethelridge 
will  help  me  :  I  am  taking  riding-lessons 
from  her." 

Mowbray's  brow  clouded.  He  seemed 
on  the  point  of  making  some  additional 
remark,  but  checked  himself.  They 
rode  on  for  some  distance,  silently  at 
first — afterward  exchanging  a  few  com 
monplaces,  until  they  reached  a  cross 
road,  little  more  than  a  bridle-path, 
leading  deeper  into  the  woods.  Then 
Hartland  said: 

«  Our  road  leads  off  here  to  the  right, 
Mr.  Mowbray." 

"  Are  you  very  busy  this  afternoon, 
Mr.  Hartland  ?  We  might  accompany 
the  ladies  as  far  as  their  ride  extends, 
and  then  have  time,  in  returning,  to 
look  at  this  land  before  sundown." 

«  Another  day  I  shall  be  glad  to  show 
it  to  you,  but  I  have  several  things 
which  I  have  promised  Mr.  Sydenham 
that  I  would  attend  to  this  afternoon." 


The  tone  was  barely  civil.  Celia, 
who  knew  her  cousin  well  and  liked  him, 
had  a  dim  feeling  that  there  was  some 
thing  wrong,  especially  when  she  saw  a 
frown  darkening  the  face  of  Mowbray, 
who,  having  no  longer  excuse  for  delay, 
coldly  doffed  his  hat  to  the  ladies  and 
rode  off  with  Hartland. 

If  either  of  the  riders  who  remained 
regretted  this  departure,  one  of  their 
horses  evidently  did  not.  Bess  resumed 
all  her  spirit  and  gentleness,  arching  her 
neck,  as  with  pride  or  pleasure,  and 
glancing  with  her  bold,  bright  eyes  at 
her  mistress — a  mute  protest,  one  might 
almost  have  supposed  it,  against  another 
separation.  Ellinor  ran  her  fingers 
through  the  long  silky  mane  admiringly. 

".I  shall  nat  have  the  heart  to  correct 
this  pretty  creature  for  her  one  sin,"  she 
said.  "I  have  the  same  weakness  for 
her  mistress  that  she  has.  She  means 
only  love,  not  harm.  Should  one  be 
blamed  for  that  ?" 

"  We  are  told  that  to  him  who  loveth 
much  shall  much  be  forgiven." 

Ellinor  looked  up  quickly :  she  saw 
that  Celia  was  not  thinking  of  her. 
"That  is  God's  own  truth."  she  said, 
reverently  :  then  after  a  pause — "  yet  we 
have  no  right  to  indulge  even  love  at 
expense  of  others." 

This  time  it  was  Celia  who  looked  up. 
Ellinor  turned  it  off:  "  Bess  won't  an 
noy  you  with  her  fondness  :  she'll  be 
good  at  your  bidding,  if  she  is  perverse 
with  others." 

A  fit  of  musing  fell  on  the  girls  as 
they  rode  home.  Something  had  jarred 
on  Celia's  consciousness,  but  she  had 
forgotten  it  next  day.  Not  so  Ellinor: 
she  laid  up  what  seemed  trifles  in  her 
heart. 


CHAPTER    XVI. 
THE    CANDIDATES. 

"Audi  alteram  partem." 

«  PAPA  dear,"  said  Leoline,  as  they 
rode  one  morning  toward  Tyler's  Mill, 
"  who  is  this  Mr.  Creighton  that  we  are 
going  to  hear  ?" 

«  Candidate  to  fill  a  vacancy  in  Con 
gress,  against  Mr.  Emberly." 


BEYOND    THE   BREAKERS. 


"  Yes,  I  know  ;   but  who  is  he  ?" 

"  Have  you  any  recollection  of  Mr. 
Williams  ?  But  no — you  were  too  young 
then." 

«  The  Quaker  gentleman  who  traveled 
with  us  in  Italy  ?  Why,  I  remember 
the  very  day  we  made  acquaintance  with 
him." 

«  Are  you  sure  of  that,  my  child  ?" 

«  It  was  in  the  cathedral  at  Pisa.  He 
asked  the  guide  about  Galileo's  lamp. 
No,  not  Galileo's,  but  the  lamp  that  was 
accidentally  set  swinging  while  mass  was 
going  on,  and  Galileo  noticed  it,  and  it 
helped  him  to  invent  the  pendulum." 

"  It  suggested  to  him  the  principle  of 
the  pendulum,  you  mean  :  yes,  that  is 
the  very  Mr.  Williams.  Eliot  Creigh- 
ton  is  his  nephew — a  young  lawyer  liv 
ing  about  fifty  miles  from  here." 

»  A  good  speaker,  is  he  ?" 

"  They  say  so.  I  take  an  interest  in 
him.  He  is,  I  believe,  a  Unitarian  ;  and 
I  saw,  this  morning,  an  anonymous 
handbill  attacking  him  on  account  of  his 
religious  opinions,  and  abusing  him  as 
an  infidel." 

"  I'm  glad  of  that  :  I  mean  I'm  glad 
he  will  have  to  defend  himself." 

«  Why,  my  child  ?" 

"  It  will  be  nice  :  we  shall  see  what 
he's  made  of.  We  shall  see  whether 
he'll  let  them  catechise  him.  A  man 
that's  a  coward  won't  do  for  me." 

«  I  like  pluck  myself.  Moral  courage 
is  the  rarest  of  qualities  among  our  pub 
lic  men.  But,  in  a  political  contest, 
where  the  party  vote  is  so  nearly  bal 
anced  as  in  our  district,  there  is  great 
temptation  to  temporize  and  smooth 
things  over." 

"  Surely  you  wouldn't  vote  to  send  a 
man  to  Congress  who  could  not  stand 
temptation,  papa?"  said  Leoline,  in 
dignantly. 

"  Not  if  another  offered  who  could," 
smiling  at  her  warmth. 

"  I  hope  Mr.  Creighton  can." 

«  We  shall  see." 

The  trysting-place  was  Grangula's 
Mount — so  called  after  an  Indian  chief 
who  had  formerly  held  sway  in  these 
parts.  It  was  in  the  woods,  about  two 
miles  west  of  Sydenham's  residence. 


The  topmost  summit  of  this  eminence 
was  bald,  but  a  little  way  down,  on  its 
eastern  slope,  were  loosely  clustered  a 
few  broad-branching  trees — old  oaks  and 
elms  and  dark  hemlocks.  Under  the 
spacious  shelter  of  this  detached  grove 
the  eye  commanded  a  magnificent  view 
over  the  village,  the  pretty  lake  beyond 
and  the  expanse  of  forest  and  champaign 
that  surrounded  both.  The  spot  was  a 
favorite  resort  of  the  villagers  on  their 
pic-nic  excursions  ;  and  Sydenham,  de 
siring  to  encourage  these  easy,  healthful 
social  gatherings,  had  caused  rustic  seats 
to  be  placed  where  the  shade  was  deep 
est  for  comfort  and  accommodation. 
This  had  caused  it  to  be  selected,  also, 
as  a  convenient  spot  for  public  meetings, 
political  and  sometimes  religious. 

A  crowd  was  gathering  fast.  It  was 
a  magnificent  day — calm,  cloudless,  but 
the  landscape  veiled  with  the  light,  trans 
parent,  illuminated  haze  which  marks 
that  beautiful  episode  in  the  autumn 
season  of  the  West,  known  as  "  In 
dian  Summer."  As  Sydenham  and  his 
daughter  advanced  to  their  seats,  Leo- 
line  exclaimed  in  delight ;  and  her  father, 
albeit  familiar  with  whatever  is  most 
striking  in  European  scenery,  stood  still 
in  admiration. 

It  was  at  the  epoch  when  the  first 
light  finger-touch  of  frost  sprinkles  magi 
cal  coloring  over  dark-green  oceans  of 
foliage.  The  woods,  far  more  brilliant 
in  their  decay  than  in  the  tropic  of  their 
perfection,  snowed  like  groves  in  fairy 
land,  pranked  with  all  that  is  gayest  in 
the  rainbow — golden  and  primrose  yel 
lows  ;  tawny  orange  of  every  shade  ; 
deep,  blood-red  crimsons  ;  scarlets  with 
color  of  flame  ;  gorgeous  purples,  with 
here  and  there  a  lilac  tinge ;  bright, 
rich  browns,  shaded  off  into  russet  and 
olive  ;  yet  all  harmonizing  with  a  felicity 
which  human  pencil  seeks  in  vain  to 
emulate.  A  lover  of  Nature  might  well 
have  traveled  a  thousand  miles  to  wit 
ness  the  scene,  if  nearer  home  such  ex 
hibition  of  sylvan  splendor  was  not  to 
be  found.  Yet  most  of  the  spectators 
who  now  sat  down  in  full  view  of  the 
wondrous  prospect  scarcely  vouchsafed 
a  second  look  or  a  single  comment. 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


Their  thoughts  were  on  something  less 
familiar — the  two  candidates,  both  per 
sonal  strangers  in  the  county,  who  had 
just  made  their  appearance  on  the 
ground.  They  had  agreed  to  travel 
together  and  to  speak  alternately.  On 
this  day,  Mr.  Emberly  had  the  opening 
.speech.  He  ascended  an  elevated  plat 
form,  occupied,  on  festal  occasions,  by 
the  village  band. 

A  thin,  middle-aged  man,  clad  in 
black,  with  a  slow  step  and  somewhat 
solemn  aspect ;  known  by  reputation  to 
many  of  the  spectators  as  having  filled, 
a  few  years  before,  the  post  of  president- 
judge  in  an  adjoining  circuit — a  fluent 
rather  than  forcible  speaker.  He  began 
by  a  compliment  to  the  audience,  eulo 
gizing  the  appearance  of  the  village  and 
surrounding  country,  then  ran  glibly  over 
the  political  topics  of  the  day  in  parti 
san  fashion,  hitting  his  opponent  from 
time  to  time  with  a  touch  of  asperity, 
but  without  allusion  to  his  religious 
sentiments,  unless  his  concluding  remark 
might  be  so  construed. 

"  Fellow-citizens,"  he  said,  "  I  here 
rest  my  cause,  assured  of  helping  hands. 
I  am  happy  to  have  found  among  you 
many  who  agree  with  me.  not  only  in 
politics,  but  on  topics  transcending  in 
importance  all  matters  of  secular  debate 
— men  with  whom  I  have  a  bond  of 
fellowship  closer  than  any  party  ties ; 
dear  friends  who  sympathize  with  me  in 
those  opinions  which  will  determine  our 
Future  when  earthly  scenes  shall  have 
passed  away.  That  I  have  the  hearty 
good-will  of  all  such  men  I  know,  and 
with  that  I  rest  satisfied  :  it  is  not  for 
me  to  inquire  whether  I  shall  obtain 
their  votes  also." 

At  this  all  eyes  turned  toward  Creigh- 
ton ;  and  Leoline,  glancing  round,  noticed 
that  one  or  two  men,  who  had  been  read 
ing  a  handbill  before  the  speaking  began, 
nudged  their  neighbors.  She  felt  a  little 
nervous  as  Creighton  rose.  The  young 
man  himself  did  not  seem  quite  at  ease. 

Instead  of  ascending  to  the  platform 
which  Emberly  had  occupied,  and  which 
stood  a  little  on  one  side,  he  took  his 
stand  at  the  foot  of  a  noble  elm,  di 
rectly  in  front  of  the  audience,  who 


were  chiefly  seated,  row  above  row,  on 
the  sloping  hillside,  so  that  he  looked 
up  as  he  addressed  them. 

During  the  first  ten  minutes  most  of 
his  auditors  had  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  the  fluent  Emberly  was  the  better 
speaker.  No  easy  preface  ;  no  concilia 
tory  commendation  of  themselves  or  of 
their  neighborhood  :  no  sueing ;  no 
allusion,  in  deprecatory  tone  or  other 
wise,  to  his  own  claims  or  to  his  inex 
perience.  A  plain  review  of  the  facts  at 
issue,  curtly  but  carefully  stated,  rather 
as  if  it  had  been  committed  to  memory. 
This  called  forth  no  token,  expressed 
aloud,  either  of  dissent  or  of  approba 
tion  ;  a  Chiskauga  audience  never  in 
dulged  in  any  such — it  was  contrary  to 
the  habit  of  the  country  ;  but  the  faces 
were  cold,  and  there  was  a  smile,  not 
of  friendly  import,  on  the  lips  of  several 
prominent  men — on  those  of  Amos  Crans- 
toun  among  the  rest.  Such  a  moment  is 
a  turning-point  in  the  career  of  a  young 
speaker.  Creighton  noticed  the  mute 
irony  :  it  stung  him,  shaking  him  free 
from  embarrassment  at  once.  He  took 
up  the  subjects  he  had  laid  out,  one  by 
one,  just  a  little  bit  defiantly  at  first  ; 
but,  as  the  spirit  began  to  work,  with 
such  earnestness  and  candor  that,  before 
half  an  hour  more  had  passed,  the  audi 
ence  had  forgotten  to  criticise  or  to 
admire  ;  had  forgotten  that  it  was  Eliot 
Creighton  who  was  speaking  to  them  ; 
thought  only  of  the  facts  submitted  and 
of  the  arguments  made  ;  so  completely, 
by'the  magnetic  tones,  had  they  become 
wrapped  up  in  the  subject  itself.  Seve 
ral  had  stretched  themselves  on  the 
grass  near  him,  their  rifles  beside  them, 
and  now,  the  chin  propped  on  a  hand, 
sat  with  eyes  as  eagerly  fixed  on  the 
speaker  as  if  they  had  been  tracking  a 
deer. 

Animated  by  the  attention  he  had 
won,  Creighton  indulged,  once  or  twice, 
in  a  vein  of  humor  that  was  natural  to 
him  ;  his  allusions  to  Emberly  and  to 
his  arguments,  sharp  as  the  wit  was, 
still  untinctured  by  ill-nature.  That  won 
simple  hearts,  always  open  to  a  pleasant 
jest.  Several  old  farmers  slapped  their 
thighs,  in  a  manner  which  said  as  plainly 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


103 


as  a  slap  could  say  it,  « He'll  do !" 
And  when  at  last,  in  illustration  of  some 
point  he  had  made,  the  speaker  intro 
duced,  with  graphic  gestures,  a  sportive 
anecdote,  the  hillside  rang  with  laughter. 

Then  he  paused,  a  sudden  change 
passing  over  his  features,  sternness  suc 
ceeding  the  light  pleasantry.  The  whis 
pered  comments  which  his  amusing 
story  had  called  forth  instantly  ceased, 
and  there  was  a  hush  of  expectation. 
Picking  up  from  the  grass  beside  him, 
where  he  had  laid  it  ere  he  began  to 
speak,  a  printed  handbill,  he  unfolded  it 
as  if  to  read  its  contents  :  then,  seeming 
to  think  better  of  it,  he  cast  it  from  him 
again  ;  and,  selecting  from  among  several 
documents  a  small,  time-stained-looking 
pamphlet,  and  alluding  now,  for  the  first 
time  throughout  his  speech,  to  the  fact 
that  he  was  a  candidate,  he  said,  quietly, 
but  with  that  emphasis  which  subdued 
emotion  imparts : 

«  If  you  send  me  to  Washington  City, 
it  will  not  be  as  a  propagandist  to  take 
action  for  you  in  matters  of  religion  :  it 
will  be  as  agent  or  attorney  to  transact 
your  worldly  business.  But  it  is  not 
usual  to  ask  a  lawyer,  before  he  is  en 
trusted  with  a  cause,  whether  he  be 
Presbyterian  or  Universalist.  Nor  do 
you  catechise  the  tailor  who  sews  your 
coat,  or  the  shoemaker  who  fits  you  with 
a  pair  of  boots.  You  want  your  busi 
ness  well  done — that  is  your  affair  :  you 
leave  the  man's  creed  alone — that  is  his. 
Now  the  same  common-sense  principle 
which  prevails  in  every-day  life  would 
govern  in  politics  also  if  voters,  in  this 
matter,  were  left  to  themselves.  Yet 
ever  since  the  commencement  of  our 
government  there  have  been  found,  from 
time  to  time,  those  who  have  taken  pains 
to  lead  astray,  on  this  point,  the  good 
sense  of  the  people. 

"  Would  you  hear  what  was  put  forth, 
in  the  year  1800,  when  the  author  of  the 
Declaration  of  Independence  was  candi 
date  for  the  Presidency  ?  Then  let  me 
read  to  you  from  a  pamphlet  of  that  day. 
The  writer  says  :  <  Consider  the  effect 
which  the  election  of  any  man  avowing 
the  principles  of  Mr.  Jefferson  would 
nave  upon  our  citizens.  The  effect 


would  be  to  destroy  religion,  introduce 
immorality  and  loosen  all  the  bonds  of 
society.' 

"  Such  was  the  prophecy.  Shall  we 
ask  whether,  four  years  afterward,  when 
he  whom  his  enemies  persisted  in  call 
ing  '  the  infidel  President '  took  his  seat, 
the  predictions  of  evil  were  fulfilled  ? — 
whether  religion  was  destroyed — whether 
immorality  was  introduced — whether  the 
bonds  of  society  were  loosened  ?  The 
questions  are  an  insult  to  the  illustrious 
dead! 

"  Now,  as  then,  we  find  men  who  en 
gage  in  politics  as  they  would  gamble  at 
cards.  But  it  is  not  the  religion  of  the 
heart  that  busies  itself  in  this  profligate 
game.  True  piety  is  quiet,  unobtrusive, 
a  keeper  at  home,  a  peacemaker.  She 
enters  into  her  closet  and  prays  there, 
after  she  has  closed  the  door.  She 
does  not  thrust  herself  into  the  turmoil 
of  party  politics,  catechising  candidates 
and  sowing  broadcast  the  seeds  of  intoler 
ance  and  of  all  uncharitableness.  True 
piety,  let  it  differ  from  me  in  the  articles 
of  its  creed  as  it  will,  I  honor  and  re 
spect.  From  my  youth  up  I  have  been 
trained  to  honor  and  respect  it.  But, 
for  its  base  counterfeit — say,  freemen  of 
Ohio  !  answer  and  say,  whether  I  should 
better  deserve  the  suffrages  of  brave  and 
upright  men  if  I  lacked  the  spirit  to 
scorn  its  slanders — if  I  consented  to 
bow  down  my  soul  before  its  pharisaical 
sway  ?" 

Creighton's  voice  was  a  low  tenor, 
musical  and  of  great  power ;  and  its 
tones,  as  he  warmed  with  indignant 
emotion,  swelled  out  over  the  hillside 
and  reached  the  edge  of  the  forest, 
where  some  little  children  were  nutting. 
They  crept  back  on  tiptoe,  "to  hear 
what  the  preacher  was  saying."  Wlien 
Creighton  recommenced  it  was  in  a 
quieter  key : 

"  When  a  friend  asks  me  about  my 
creed  —  when  any  good  man,  anxious 
for  my  spiritual  welfare,  makes  inquiry 
touching  my  religious  opinions — I  have 
an  answer  for  him,  full  and  frank.  But 
when  political  intriguers,  conspiring  for 
sinister  ends,  go  out  of  their  way  to 
charge  upon  me  sentiments  which  as 


104 


BETOND    THE   BREAKERS. 


little  resemble  those  I  ever  held  as  their 
whole  conduct  in  this  affair  resembles 
uprightness  and  fair-dealing — to  such 
men,  impertinently  obtruding  such  a 
subject,  I  have  no  answer  whatever. 

"It  may  be  that  some  of  you,  if  I  told 
you  my  creed,  might  deem  a  few  of  its 
articles  heterodox.  So  be  it !  They 
are  my  own.  I  am  answerable  for  them 
at  a  higher  tribunal  than  man's.  I  claim 
for  myself,  as  the  good  and  noble  Roger 
Williams  did  of  yore,  that  right  of  pri 
vate  judgment  and  free  speech  which  it 
is  our  country's  proudest  boast  that 
every  American  citizen  may  demand  at 
the  hands  of  his  fellow-citizens.  To  the 
greatest  it  has  not  been  refused — to  the 
humblest  it  may  not  justly  be  denied. 
Jefferson  claimed  it  when  he  asked  your 
fathers'  votes  for  the  office  of  chief 
magistrate  of  the  republic  :  I  am  equally 
entitled  to  its  sacred  shield,  though  I 
stand  before  you  but  one  among  the 
undistinguished  hundreds  who  now  aspire 
to  a  seat  in  the  councils  of  the  nation." 

Not  a  sound  nor  a  movement  in  the 
audience.  No  one  stirred  from  his 
place.  They  sat  with  eyes  intent  on 
the  speaker,  as  if  waiting  for  more.  It 
was  not  till  Creighton,  noticing  this, 
stepped  forward  with  a  smile  and  a  blush 
of  pleasure  at  this  mute  compliment  to 
his  eloquence,  and  thanked  them  grace 
fully  for  the  marked  attention  they  had 
given  him.  that  the  spell  was  dissolved 
and  the  crowd  arose.  Then,  indeed,  all 
tongues  were  loosed. 

Some  of  the  comments,  even  when 
laudatory,  were  more  forcible  than  ele 
gant.  As  Sydenham  stopped  to  speak 
to  Celia  and  her  aunt,  Leoline  overheard, 
from  a  knot  of  four  or  five  gray-headed 
men  near  them  : 

"  If  that  young  fellow  didn't  give  it  to 
them  good  !  Now  ain't  he  a  horse  ?" 

"  Well,  he's  slick  on  the  tongue — 
very,"  said  another;  "but  he's  mighty 
high  and  independent.  He  didn't  seem 
to  care  a  chaw  of  tobacco  whether  we 
gin  him  our  votes  or  not.  If  a  man 
goes  for  him,  he  won't  get  a  thankee  for 
it.  Emberly's  something  like :  he  has 
a  civil  tongue  in  his  head." 

"  They're  both  blooded  nags,"  broke  in 


a  younger  man  who  had  come  up  during 
the  last  remark  ;  "but  I'll  tell  you  what 
it  is  :  fair  play's  fair  play.  That  hand 
bill  sort  o'  sticks  in  my  craw.  A  fellow 
ought  to  have  a  chance.  Here's  just 
three  days  to  the  election,  and  it's  only 
yesterday  these  dirty  sheets  showed  their 
faces  here.  I  hear'n  they  were  kep' 
back  in  the  other  counties  till  the  can 
didates  had  spoke  and  gone.  That's 
stabbin'  a  man  behind  his  back.  A 
scamp  that'd  be  guilty  of  such  a  trick'd 
steal  cold  corn-bread  from  a  nigger's 
saddle-bags." 

"  Ye  can't  say  P^mberly  had  anything 
to  do  with  the  handbills." 

"  No  ;  but,  to  my  thinkin'  there  was 
a  touch  of  the  sneak  in  the  way  he 
wound  up  his  speech  about  'bonds  of 
fellowship.'  A  man  could  see  with  half 
an  eye  that  it  was  a  tub  thrown  out  to 
the  Methodists." 

"  And  you're  a  Hard-shell  Baptist." 

"  Not  soft  enough,  any  way,  to  be 
caught  with  such  back-handed  tricks." 

Leoline's  party  passed  on  toward  the 
stand,  so  she  heard  no  more,  Syden 
ham  gave  his  hand  to  Creighton.  "  We 
must  become  good  friends,"  he  said, 
cordially.  "  Come  and  have  a  quiet  cup 
of  tea  at  my  house  this  evening.  Or 
cannot  you  ride  home  with  us  now  ?" 

"  Thank  you,  much.  But  a  candidate 
is  public  property  for  two  hours  after  his 
speech,  and  I  must  call  on  my  friend, 
Miss  Ethelridge.  By  six  I  can  be  with 
you." 

"  That  will  suit  us  perfectly." 

Celia,  having  come  on  horseback, 
joined  the  Sydenham  party  as  they  rode 
home.  "  So  he  knows  Ellie  ?"  she 
thought  to  herself ;  "  <  my  friend  Miss 
Ethelridge,'  he  said.  And  she  has  only 
one  friend  who  writes  to  her.  I  wonder 
if  it  is  Mr.  Creighton  ?"  But  all  this 
she  kept  to  herself. 

"  Isn't  he  splendid  ?"  said  Leoline  to 
Celia  :  her  father  was  riding  in  advance 
with  Ethan  Hartland. 

"  Mr.  Creighton  ?  I  liked  his  speech  ; 
but  you  surely  don't  think  him  hand 
some,  Lela?"  Celia  was  comparing 
him,  in  her  own  mind,  with  Evelyn 
Mowbray. 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


105 


« I  really  can't  tell  what  ladies  call 
handsome.  Dr.  Meyrac  has  a  fine  por 
trait  of  Kosciusko.  and  Lucille  Meyrac 
and  I  were  looking  at  it  the  other  day. 
She  said  it  was  an  ugly  face.  Well,  I 
don't  know.  I  think  if  its  owner  had 
courted  me  right  hard,  I  might  have  had 
him." 

«  And  you  think  Creighton  resembles 
him  ?" 

"  Wicked  creature  !  You  would  en 
trap  me  into  giving  as  broad  a  hint  as 
Desdemona  gave  to  Othello — 

'  And  bade  me,  if  I  had  a  friend  that  loved  her, 
I  should  but  teach  him  how  to  tell  my  story, 
And  that  would  woo  her.'  " 

« Well,  Lela,  why  shouldn't  you  ad 
mire  him  ?" 

« I  like  him.  I  like  all  brave  and 
frank  men,  who  speak  their  minds  nobly 
— who  won't  temporize  and  truckle — who 
won't  be  taken  to  task  and  trodden  on. 
But  it's  against  my  principles  to  care 
for  any  one — that  is,  really  care,  you 
know — who  will  never  care  for  me." 

Celia  laughed  :  "  So  you've  made  up 
your  mind  already  that  Creighton  never 
will." 

"  Quite,"  Leoline  replied  with  the 
most  sober  and  thoughtful  air.  "  He 
never  would,  even  if  he  were  to  settle 
here  among  us.  I'm  not  the  least  the 
sort  of  person  to  take  his  fancy. 
I'm  too  like  him.  If  I  were  fairly 
brought  to  bay  and  hard  put  to  it,  I'm 
not  at  all  sure  but  I  could  make  some 
such  speech,  myself.  I  felt  like  it  when 
he  talked  about  bowing  down  his  soul — 
how  was  it  ? — beneath  Slander's  phari- 
saical  sway.  Such  sort  of  men  like 
sweet,  quiet,  domestic  women.  Ah  !  if 
you  were  not  disposed  of,  Celia  !  The 
very  person  to  suit  him  !" 

"  But  then  I  should  never  take  a 
fancy  to  him." 

«  No.  It's  a  pity,  though."  And 
Leoline  looked  as  serious  as  if  she  had 
the  whole  matter  on  her  own  shoulders  : 
she  was  thinking  of  Mowbray,  and  com 
paring  the  two  men.  Then  she  branched 
off  to  the  speech  again  :  "  What  a  ges 
ture  that  was  !" — she  threw  up  her  own 
arm  as  the  thought  crossed  her — "and 
what  a  look,  as  he  talked  of  Roger 


Williams  and  claimed  the  right  of  free 
speech  !  How  came  it,  I  wonder,  with 
that  slender  figure  and  just  medium 
height,  that  he  could  throw  so  much 
dignity  into  his  bearing  ?" 

Sydenham  overheard  her  and  turned  : 
"  In  a  measure,  no  doubt,  because  noble 
sentiments  impart  noble  expression  ;  but 
it  was  partly  due,  I  think,  to  an  accident 
or  an  intuition." 

"  How  so,  papa  ?" 

"  Instead  of  getting  on  the  platform, 
as  Emberly  did,  he  took  his  stand  on  the 
grass  below  his  audience.  Thus,  in  ad 
dressing  them,  his  head  was  naturally 
thrown  back  a  little,  his  eyes  raised,  and 
when  his  emotions  sought  expression  in 
action,  the  gestures  were  all  upward, 
corresponding  to  sentiments  elevated 
and  aspiring.  I  think  clergymen  do 
wrong  to  ascend  high  pulpits  whence  to 
deliver  their  sermons.  There  was  a 
simple  dignity  about  Creighton  to-day 
such  as  young  men  seldom  attain.  But 
if  he  had  been  boxed  up  and  looking 
down  upon  us,  much  of  the  expression 
would  have  been  lost." 

Creighton  came  to  tea.  So,  at  an 
invitation  from  Sydenham,  did  Ellinor 
Ethelridge.  Celia  kept  a  promise  given 
to  Leoline  to  come  over  in  the  course 
of  the  evening,  her  cousin  Ethan  Hart- 
land  accompanying  her. 

Ethan  informed  Sydenham  that  the 
chairman  of  a  certain  committee  that 
was  about  to  convene  sent  a  pressing 
request  for  his  attendance. 

"  You  will  excuse  Mr.  Hartland  and 
myself,  I  know,  Mr.  Creighton  :  it  is  in 
your  interest  we  meet.  I  leave  you  in 
charge  of  the  ladies." 

They  had  a  pleasant,  lively  party — 
after  a  while,  music.  Leoline  played  a 
portion  of  the  overture  to  the  Trovatore, 
then  a  fresh  importation  and  just  corning 
into  Cisatlantic  favor.  Afterward  Creigh 
ton  sang  "Ah  che  la  morte  ognora  "  to 
Celia's  accompaniment,  and  persuaded 
Leoline  to  join  him  in  "Ai  nostri  monti," 
though  she  could  but  just  reach  the 
lower  notes. 

After  one  or  two  of  Schubert's  songs, 
Creighton  spied  a  volume  labeled  «  Mo- 


io6 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


zart."  "Ah  !"  he  said,  as  he  opened  at 
some  selections  from  Don  Giovanni, 
« it  is  refreshing  to  see  anything  so  old- 
fashioned."  At  his  request  Celia  sang 
«  Vedrai,  carino  ;"  and  together  they  ex 
ecuted  the  duett,  "La-ci  darem."  Their 
voices  harmonized  admirably. 

"You  had  music-lessons  in  Germany?" 
said  Ellinor  to  Creighton. 

"  Yes  ;  and  I  was  about  to  ask  the 
same  question  of  Miss  Pembroke," 
turning  to  her.  « Have  you  been 
abroad  ?" 

"  In  Europe  ?  Never.  But  I  had  a 
German  teacher  in  Philadelphia.!' 

"Ah  !  I  thought  so."  Then  he  con 
versed  with  Miss  Ethelridge.  His  man 
ner  toward  her  was  cordial-  and  unem 
barrassed.  Celia  blamed  herself  .after 
ward  for  having  observed  them  so 
narrowly.  She  could  not  make  out 
Ellinor's  demeanor  toward  him.  They 
\vere  old  acquaintances,  certainly ;  but 
it  was  not  the  manner  usual  between 
intimate  friends  of  the  same  age,  even 
if  of  opposite  sex.  There  was  deep 
respect  in  it,  as  if  Creighton  had  been 
twenty  years  older  than  she — her  guard 
ian,  perhaps,  who  had  cared  for  her 
from  her  infancy.  Yet  he  seemed  to  be 
rather  the  younger  of  the  two.  Evi 
dently  she  took  the  warmest  interest  in 
his  welfare. 

"  Is  your  election  doubtful  ?"  she  said. 

"Very  doubtful.  I  shall  probably 
lose  it." 

Celia,  who  had  taken  one  of  her 
friend's  hands  between  hers,  felt  it 
tremble  as  Ellinor  asked,  "Because  of 
that  vile  handbill  ?"  her  eyes  flashing. 

"  It  will  cost  me  a  good  many 
votes." 

"  Surely  not !"  exclaimed  Leoline  ;  and 
she  proceeded,  in  her  animated  way,  to 
repeat  the  conversation  she  had  over 
heard  as  they  were  leaving  the  ground. 

Creighton  laughed  heartily :  "  It's  very 
amusing,  this  electioneering,  though  it  is 
tedious  enough  sometimes.  I  feel  flat 
tered  by  the  old  man's  comparison.  The 
horse  is  a  noble  animal,  and  the  farmer's 
best  friend,  too." 

"  But  you  have  no  idea  how  well  your 
defender's  hit  about  the  cold  corn-bread 


came  off,"  said  Leoline.     "I  know  your 
speech  made  a  good  impression." 

"  There  is  in  our  people  a  strong 
sense  of  justice  and  love  of  fair  play,  to 
which  one  seldom  appeals  in  vain.  The 
handbill  would  probably  have  aided 
rather  than  injured  me,  had  they  left  me 
a  chance  of  reply.  But  they  chose  their 
time  well." 

"  111,  you  mean,"  said  Leoline,  in 
dignantly. 

Creighton  smiled. 

"  How  can  you  take  it  so  easily  ?"  she 
went  on.  "  I  do  believe  you  forgot, 
while  we  were  singing  just  now,  that 
Monday  next  is  election-day." 

"  One  likes  to  shake  off  the  dust  in 
the  evening.  Do  not  grudge  it  to  me, 
dear  Miss  Sydenham.  That  last  duett 
took  me  back  to  Gottingen.  Miss  Pem 
broke's  voice  and  style  reminded  me  so 
much  of  a  charming  family  of  musicians 
I  used  to  visit  there." 

"And  you  actually  forgot  that  hand 
bill  ?"  persisted  Leoline. 

"  The  evil  which  others  seek  to  do  us 
is  worth  forgetting  only."  Creighton 
turned  toward  Miss  Ethelridge  as  he 
said  it. 

Again  that  tell-tale  hand  !  But  this 
time  Ellinor  gently  withdrew  it  from 
Celia's  clasp. 

At  this  juncture  Sydenham  and  Ethan 
Hartland  returned. 

"  Mr.  Creighton,"  said  the  latter, 
"your  concluding  remarks  were  taken 
down  in  shorthand,  and  are  now  in  type 
for  our  Chiskauga  Gleaner,  of  which  we 
have  hastened  the  publication  one  day, 
so  that  it  will  appear  to-morrow.  An 
extra  thousand  will  be  printed  and  sent 
over  the  county.  Do  not  fear  the  result 
at  our  precinct.  There  is  reaction  al 
ready.  Here  you  will  outrun  the  party 
vote." 

Creighton  expressed  his  thanks  in 
strong  terms. 

"  It  is  we  who  are  your  debtors,"  said 
Sydenham,  warmly.  "  We  have  tempta 
tions  enough  to  hypocrisy  already  among 
us,  without  suffering  an  honest  man's 
creed  to  be  made  a  political  test.  I  am 
sorry  you  live  so  far  from  us." 

"  I  liked  the  expression  of  those  faces 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


107 


on  the  hillside  to-day.  I  like  the  social 
atmosphere  of  your  little  place  ;  and  I 
have  serious  thoughts,  when  the  election 
is  over,  of  returning  this  way  and  asking 
you  if  you  have  not  a  small  dwelling- 
house  to  rent  or  sell." 

"You  shall  be  heartily  welcome. 
Come  and  make  your  home  with  me  for 
a  day  or  two." 

"  But  if  Mr.  Creighton  has  to  go  to 
Congress,  papa  ?" 

"  Then  his  time  will  be  short ;  but  we 
shall  be  thankful  even  for  a  flying  visit." 

"  One  doesn't  like  to  be  beaten,  Miss 
Sydenham,"  said  Creighton,  "and  I 
have  had  dreams  of  being  useful  if 
elected  ;  but  if  Emberly  is  to  be  Con 
gressman,  it  may  be  all  for  the  best.  A 
man's  traducers  often  do  him  good.  I 
am  very  sure  I  shall  spend  a  pleasanter 
winter  here,  if  I  succeed  in  finding  a 
home  in  this  pretty  village  of  yours, 
than  I  should  in  Washington  City." 

"  At  all  events,"  said  Leoline,  «  we'll 
do  our  best  to  make  it  up  to  you  if  these 
rascals,  with  their  handbills,  hoodwink 
the  people.  Won't  we,  Miss  Ethel- 
ridge?"  she  added  with  sudden  impulse, 
noticing  that  lady's  anxious  looks. 

Ellinor  colored  just  a  little,  was  em 
barrassed  for  a  moment,  then  replied,  in 
a  quiet  tone  :  "  Mr.  Creighton  deserves 
all  we  may  be  able  to  do  for  him." 

Creighton  seemed  about  to  reply  to 
her,  but  he  merely  bowed  and  expressed, 
in  warm  terms,  his  sense  of  the  kind 
ness  with  which  he  had  been  received  at 
Chiskauga. 

They  parted,  with  sentiments  of  mu 
tual  esteem. 

That  evening  Celia  spent  twice  the 
usual  time  in  doing  up  her  hair.  The 
comb  dropped  on  her  knee,  and  she 
dropped  into  a  musing  fit :  "  He  liked 
the  faces  on  that  hillside  !  Did  he,  in 
deed  !  I  think  I  could  pick  out  one  in 
the  village  that  has  more  attractions  for 
him  than  that  whole  audience,  and  can 
do  more  to  make  a  winter  pleasant  to 
him  than  all  of  us  put  together :  I  saw 
him  glance  across  at  her  when  he  talked 
of  settling  here.  Then  I  should  like  to 
know  what  chance  a  man  has  of  judging 


the  <  social  atmosphere'  of  a  place  which 
he  has  inhabited  for  just  two-thirds  of  a 
day  ;  especially  when  half  of  that  pro 
tracted  period  was  spent  in  two  rooms 
— Dr.  Meyrac's  parlor  and  Mr.  Syden- 
ham's  drawing-room.  How  transparent 
men  are  when  they  fall  in  love  !" 

Then  the  labor  of  the  comb  was  re 
sumed,  but  by  and  by  there  was  another 
intermission  :  "  I  wonder  whether  a  wo 
man  ought  to  reverence  a  man  before 
she  marries  him — he  about  her  own  age, 
or  even  if  he  were  two  or  three  years 
older.  I  don't  the  least  believe  that  I 
could.  Isn't  there  a  text  about  'perfect 
love  casting  out  fear  ?'  "  Another  pause : 
"  It's  best  not  to  let  even  a  dear  friend 
hold  one's  hand  when  it's  not  convenient 
to  have  it  known  what  one  is  thinking 
about.  But  never  mind,  poor,  dear 
Ellie  !  If  that's  your  secret,  it's  safe 
with  me." 

Before  Celia  went  to  sleep  she  had 
come  very  decidedly  to  the  conclusion 
that  Ellinor  Ethelridge  either  was,  or 
very  soon  would  be,  engaged  to  Eliot 
Creighton. 

The  vote  was  close,  but  Creighton 
lost  his  election  ;  and  six  weeks  after 
ward  Chiskauga  gained  an  addition  to 
her  population  in  the  shape  of  an  honest 
lawyer  and  estimable  young  man. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 
LABOR    LOST. 

ONE  day,  about  a  week  after  the  elec 
tion,  Celia  received,  through  the  post- 
office,  the  following  anonymous  letter  : 

"  Miss  CELIA  PEMBROKE  : 

"  You  are  basely  deceived,  and  you 
ought  to  be  informed  of  it.  J.  E.  M. 
has  private  assignations  with  Ellen  Ty 
ler  in  a  lonely  part  of  the  woods  on  the 
bank  of  Kinshon  Creek,  about  half  a 
mile  below  her  father's  mill,  where  he 
reads  poetry  and  makes  love  to  her. 
Not  long  since  the  father  caught  them  at 
it,  and  they  had  a  tussle  which  M  won't 
forget  in  a  hurry  :  he  carried  the  marks 
home.  The  girl  is  simple  and  innocent, 


loS 


BETOND  THE  BREAKERS. 


and  no  doubt  believes  that  he  intends 
marriage.  You  know  best  whether  he 
does  or  not.  The  miller  might  give 
her  a  couple  of  thousand  dollars,  but 
there  is  a  good  deal  of  difference  between 
two  and  forty. 

"  The  writer  has  seen  you  often,  but 
is  unknown  to  you.  If  you  wish  to 
know  whether  he  is  telling  you  a  lie  or 
not,  ask  Nelson  Tyler.  The  new  groom 
that  Mr.  Hartland  lately  engaged,  and 
who  worked  several  weeks  at  the  mill, 
could,  if  he  would,  tell  you  something 
about  it.  ONE  WHO  KNOWS." 

"Cranstoun  !"  was  Celia's  first  thought 
when  she  read  this  startling  epistle.  She 
went  over  it  a  second  time.  The  spell 
ing  throughout  was  correct,  but  not  a 
stroke  of  the  writing  seemed  his.  She 
was  familiar  with  his  hand,  having  copied 
several  law-papers  made  out  by  him  for 
her  uncle.  And  this  almost  resembled 
a  school-boy's  handwriting. 

It  annoyed  her  very  seriously,  espe 
cially  the  innuendo  about  her  forty  thou 
sand  dollars  ;  but  it  did  not  unsettle  her 
faith  in  Mowbray.  She  knew  that  her 
lover  was  acquainted  with  Ellen,  for  she 
had  seen  her  frequently  at  Mrs.  Mow- 
bray's,  when  the  girl  came  thither  for 
her  French  lessons  ;  and  she  thought  it 
likely  enough  that  Evelyn,  in  the  course 
of  his  rides — perhaps  in  search  of  wood 
land  to  purchase  —  might  accidentally 
have  met  Ellen,  and  even,  for  once,  have 
read  to  her.  But  what  of  that  ?  She 
called  to  mind  that  only  two  or  three 
months  since,  one  day  that  Ethan  Hart- 
land  met  her  in  the  woods,  they  had  sat 
down  together  on  a  log  and  he  had  read 
to  her,  from  a  pocket  edition  of  Thom 
son's  Seasons,  some  passage  appropriate 
to  the  sylvan  scene  around  them.  To 
be  sure,  Ethan  was  her  cousin  ;  but 
then  cousins  do  marry  sometimes, 
though  she  had  heard  Sydenham  express 
the  opinion  that  they  never  should.* 

*  Celia,  like  many  others,  had  probably  failed  to 
distinguish  between  affinity  and  consanguinity.  Ethan 
was  not  Celia's  cousin-german,  being  a  son  by  Thomas 
Hartland's  first  wife,  not  by  Celia's  aunt.  He  was, 
therefore,  related  to  her  by  marriage  only,  not  by  blood. 
But  it  could  only  have  been  to  marriages  of  cousins  by 
biood  that  Sydenham,  a  man  of  discrimination,  had 
objected. 


Celia  was  not  the  girl  to  discard  one  to 
whom  she  had  given  her  confidence  be 
cause  he  laughed  and  chatted  with  some 
one  else  :  those  who  do  ought  to  delay 
marriage  until  they  learn  better.  She 
had  read  that  wonderful  thirteenth  chap 
ter  of  First  Corinthians,  and  she  acted 
up  to  its  declaration,  that  Love  thinketh 
no  evil. 

She  thought  :  "  Shall  I  trust  an  anony 
mous  scribbler  rather  than  one  I  have 
known  since  childhood  ?  And  then  the 
creature  thought  me  dishonorable  enough 
to  act  the  spy  on  Evelyn's  actions — to  go 
asking  a  comparative  stranger  whether 
the  man  I  am  engaged  to  is  a  rascal  or 
not,  or  putting  the  same  question  to  a 
servant  who  came  not  six  weeks  ago  to 
the  village,  from  nobody  knows  where  ? 
What  a  mean  wretch  he  must  be  him 
self!"  And,  with  that,  after  glancing 
once  more  over  the  letter,  she  threw  it 
contemptuously  into  the  fire. 

Thus,  as  generous  natures  are  en 
listed  in  favor  of  the  persecuted,  this 
covert  attack  on  Mowbray  reacted  in 
his  favor.  His  mistress  held  but  the 
more  faithfully  to  her  troth  because 
others  sought  to  malign  and  to  injure. 

Ten  days  later,  Cranstoun  and  Cassi- 
day  sat  together,  in  the  evening,  conver 
sing.  The  latter  spoke,  in  reply  to 
some  inquiry  addressed  to  him  : 

"  It's  hard  to  come  round  them,  Mr. 
Cranstoun — these  highflyers  especially, 
like  Miss  Celia.  You  never  can  tell 
how  they'll  take  things." 

"  You're  sure  she  got  it  ?" 

"  You  posted  it  yourself.  How  could 
it  miscarry  ?" 

"  What  makes  you  think  it  did  harm 
rather  than  good  ?" 

"  First,  the  black  looks  she  cast  at 
me  for  three  or  four  days  after  we  sent 
it.  She's  over  that  now,  I  take  such 
capital  care  of  Bess  ;  and  then  I  told 
her  what  a  splendid  seat  she  had,  and 
how  much  better  she  handled  her  reins 
since  she  took  riding-lessons  from  the 
school-teacher.  She's  a  stunner,  is  Miss 
Ethelridge.  I've  been  out  fox-hunting 
with  the  old  Squire  that  fathered  me, 
and  I've  seen  those  Irish  girls  take  their 


BEYOND  THE  BREAKERS. 


109 


fences — it's  a  sight  to  see,  Mr.  Cran- 
stoun  ! — but  if  she's  not  up  to  any  of 
them,  may  I  never  back  horse  again  ! 
I  praised  her  to  Miss  Celia,  too.  She 
liked  all  that.  She  knows  I'm  a  good 
judge.  So  I've  got  into  favor  again  ; 
but  if  she'd  had  her  way  the  first  day 
or  two,  good-bye  to  that  snug  little 
shealin'  where  I  hope  to  see  Ellen  one 
of  these  days." 

«  Is  that  all  your  evidence  ?  Black 
looks  don't  amount  to  much." 

"  No,  it  isn't  all.  Yesterday  we  had 
the  sorrels  out — Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hartland, 
Miss  Celia,  and  who  else,  do  you  think, 
in  the  carriage  ?" 

"  Not  Mowbray  ?" 

«  Mowbray  !  Why  he  dar'n't  come 
within  our  doors.  The  beaten  candi 
date,  Mr.  Creighton." 

"  What !  Currying  favor  with  Hart- 
land  already  ?" 

"  Looks  like  it.  He  told  the  old  man 
he'd  make  him  a  present  of  some  speci 
mens,  I  think  he  called  them  —  stones 
or  something — that  he  had  collected  in 
Europe." 

«  So  he  is  going  to  settle  here  ?' 

«  Did  not  you  hear  he  was  bargaining 
with  Mr.  Hugo  for  his  house,  just  this 
side  of  Mrs.  Mowbray's,  on  the  lake 
shore?  As  pretty  a  cottage  as  there 
is  in  the  village,  with  a  handsome  lawn 
clear  down  to  the  lake." 

"  What  does  he  want  with  a  house  ?" 

"His  mother's  a  widow,  and  she's  to 
keep  house  for  him." 

« Mr.  Cassiday,  you  were  explaining 
to  me  how  you  knew  that  our  letter  had 
missed  its  mark.  What  has  all  this  to 
do  with  it  ?" 

"  I'm  coming  to  that.  Hartland  and 
this  Creighton  hitch  horses  together  in 
politics.  When  we  were  out  driving 
they  had  a  heap  of  talk  about  that  hand 
bill,  you  know." 

"Well?" 

"  Miss  Celia,  she  joined  in.  And  the 
way  she  abused  every  man  that  would 
not  sign  what  he  wrote  !  I  did  not  quite 
hear  it  all.  She  was  telling  some  story, 
I  think,  to  her  uncle :  in  course  she 
didn't  say  a  word  about  our  little  attain 
But  she  was  as  bitter  as  gall ;  and  some 


how  she  brought  it  round  that  any  scamp 
that  would  abuse  another,  and  not  set 
his  name  to  it,  wasn't  too  good  to  steal 
cold  corn-bread  from  a  nigger's  saddle- 
bags." 

"  You  are  surely  mistaken.  She  could 
never  have  said  anything  so  coarse  as 
that." 

"  Her  dander  was  up,  I  tell  you.  I 
heard  her  as  plain  as  I  hear  you.  Pretty 
hard  on  us,  wasn't  it  ?" 

«  She  may  repent  that  one  of  these 
days." 

Something  in  the  tone  caused  Cassi 
day  to  look  up  surprised ;  but  Cfans- 
toun  was  not  thinking  of  him,  and  didn't 
notice  it.  The  groom  feigned  indifference, 
and  said,  in  an  easy  tone  :  "Anyhow, 
that's  a  lost  ball.  I  thought  it  was  well 
shot,  too.  I've  known  a  good  deal  less 
than  that  play  hell  in  a  family  before 
now.  I  wonder  what  on  earth  the  girls 
see  in  that  stuck-up  coxcomb  of  a  Mow 
bray  to  cajole  them  so  ?  If  I  were  as 
mean  as  that  fellow  is,  I'd  want  to  creep 
into  a  nutshell." 

Cassiday  understood  the  meaning  of 
the  smile  with  which  Cranstoun  received 
this,  and  replied  to  it : 

"  Well,  Mr.  Cranstoun,  you've  a  right 
to  think  just  what  you  like  about  me  : 
we've  done  some  hard  things,  in  our 
day,  to  raise  the  cash — you  and  I.  But 
if  I  loved  a  girl  as  well  as  I — as  well  as 
maybe  that  rascal  himself  loves  Ellen, 
for  I'd  like  to  see  the  man  as  could 
stand  that  smile  of  hers — may  the  foul 
fiend  catch  me  if  I'd  turn  away  from  her 
for  money-bags  !  You  don't  believe 
what  I'm  telling  you,  and  a  fellow  that's 
as  bad  as  me  has  no  right  to  complain. 
But  I'm  a  gentleman's  son,  if  it  is  on 
the  wrong  side  of  the  blanket.  And  if 
gentlemen  are  wild,  there's  some  things 
some  of  them  won't  do.  That  father  of 
mine  never  paid  his  tailor's  bill  that  I 
know  of,  but  he'd  have  shot  himself 
sooner  than  let  a  racing-debt  run  over 
the  day  it  was  due." 

"  Maybe  somebody  else  would  have 
shot  him  if  he  had  tried  that  game  on 
them." 

« He  had  his  faults,  the  old  Squire 
had — rest  his  soul ! — as  mother  knows 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


and  me,  to  our  cost ;  but  he'd  stand  the 
click  of  cocked  pistol  just  as  you  would 
a  knock  at  your  door  ;  and  he'd  put  a 
ball  through  a  good-sized  wedding-ring 
at  fifteen  steps,  every  other  pop." 

"  So  you  think  Mowbray's  meaner 
than  you  ?" 

» We  say  just  what  we  like  to  one 
another,  Mr.  Cranstoun  ;  so  it's  all  right 
for  you  to  ask  me  that.  But  if  John 
Mow  bray  should  take  it  in  his  head  to 
follow  suit,  he  might  have  a  chance  of 
finding  out  which  was  the  best  shot — him 
or  my  father's  son." 

"  I  have  no  objection  to  your  trying, 
and  I  hope  you'll  hit  him,  Cassiday. 
But  all  I  meant  to  ask  was,  whether  you 
didn't  think  Movvbray  was  after  the 
dollars,  and  not  after  Mr.  Hartland's 
niece." 

"  I'll  give  you  a  plain  answer  to  a  civil 
question.  If  Ellen  and  Miss  Celia  had 
a  fair  start,  with  two  thousand  a  piece, 
the  niece  would  be  nowhere,  distanced, 
beaten  out  of  sight.  I'll  bet  two  to  one 
on  that,  and  put  up  fifty  any  day." 

"  Stranger  things  have  happened  than 
that  you  should  have  a  chance  to  find 
out,  before  another  twelvemonth's  gone, 
whether  that  would  have  been  a  safe  bet 
or  not." 

It  was  more  than  Cranstoun  would 
have  said  had  he  not  been  thoroughly 
out  of  humor,  as  baffled  plotters  are 
wont  to  be. 

Cassiday  took  his  hat  and  departed 
without  a  word,  except  the  remark  that 
it  was  time  his  horses  had  their  supper. 
As  he  was  measuring  out  the  oats,  the 
import  of  Cranstoun's  last  speech  seemed 
to  dawn  upon  him.  "  I  must  look  out  for 
my  wages,"  was  his  reflection  :  "  these 
guardians  are  the  very  devil.  Who 
would  have  thought  it,  with  that  sancti 
monious  look  of  his  ?  Cranstoun  ought 
to  know  ;  he's  constantly  here,  closeted 
with  him  ;  but  the  old  fellow  must  be 
hard  up  if  he  has  laid  hands  on  Miss 
Celia's  cash.  Any  way,  he  has  promised 
he'd  pay  me  the  last  day  of  every  month, 
and  I'll  hold  him  to  it.  He  can't  get 
anybody  that'll  keep  things  as  tight  and 
bright  as  I  do.  I  hope  he  won't  run 
high  and  dry  and  have  to  sell  his  horses. 


I'd  be  hard  put  to  it  to  find  such  another 
place." 

It  was  a  snug  berth.  Cassiday  had 
thriven  on  perjury  so  far.  Some  rogues 
do  thrive  to  the  end  of  the  chapter — the 
earthly  chapter^  which  is  but  a  small 
portion  of  the  great  Book  of  Life.  Some 
accounts  seem  to  be  squared  here. 
Others,  unsettled,  are  carried  over.  The 
Roman  who  said  that  no  man  should  be 
accounted  happy  till  Death  sealed  his 
good-fortune  looked  but  a  little  way. 
There  are  heavy  debits  of  which  he  took 
no  account. 

What  has  been  happening  to  Cassi- 
day's  victim  ?  Did  the  world  smile  or 
frown  upon  him  after  his  release  from 
prison  ?  We  left  him  knocking  at  his 
own  door  for  admission. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 
GOOD     OUT     OF     EVIL. 

How  wonderfully  does  the  principle 
of  Compensation  intervene  in  human 
affairs  !  How  bright — as  a  grand  old 
Reformer,  poet  and  philosopher  has  sug 
gested — how  bright  is  often  the  silver 
lining  of  the  darkest  cloud! 

It  was  a  terrible  injustice  that  had  be 
fallen  our  friend  Terence  ;  and  yet,  had 
the  lines  always  fallen  to  him  in  pleasant 
places,  it  is  doubtful  whether,  throughout 
a  prosperous  lifetime,  he  would  ever  have 
known  such  supreme  and  unalloyed  hap 
piness  as  when — just  emerged  from  the 
gloom  of  prison-life — he  took  in  his  arms 
his  weeping  wife — weeping  because  no 
language  other  than  tears  could  express 
the  fullness  of  her  joy.  If  all  had  gone 
well  with  him,  it  is  doubtful  if  he  would 
ever,  with  so  stirring  a  conviction  of 
mercies  vouchsafed,  have  kissed  his 
sleeping  babes,  lying  there  unconscious 
alike  of  the  storm  that  had  passed  and 
of  the  sunshine  that  was  succeeding  it. 

He  was  better  as  well  as  happier. 
There  had  been,  till  now,  little  or  no  evi 
dence  of  the  spiritual  to  be  detected  in 
that  thoughtless,  careless  nature.  Yet 
it  was  there.  It  always  is  where  warm 
affections  exist.  It  came  forth  now,  at 


BETOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


Ill 


the  moment  when  these  affections  were 
stirred  to  their  depths.  Not  with  much 
outward  demonstration  :  the  man  did 
not  go  down  on  his  knees,  but  his  heart 
knelt  to  the  Giver  of  all  good.  No  set 
form  of  thanksgiving  came  to  his  lips, 
beyond  the  single  exclamation  that  burst 
from  him  as  Norah,  between  sobs,  re 
turned  his  passionate  kisses  : 

"  The  Lord  be  praised  for  this  blessed 
hour  !" 

Only  an  exclamation,  yet  almost  as 
long  as  that  of  the  publican  who  im 
plored  for  mercy  to  him  a  sinner.  All 
that  sleepless  night,  as  the  young  Irish 
man  gradually  came  to  realize  his  great 
deliverance,  his  soul  prayed  in  more  than 
words.  The  effectual  fervent  prayer— 
the  availing  one — often  ascends  ungar- 
mented  by  human  phrase,  in  robeless 
purity. 

I  do  not  assert  for  Terence  anything 
like  a  change  of  heart.  Nature,  as  Lin 
naeus  has  expressed  it,  makes  no  great 
leaps.  She  does  not  deal  in  sudden 
transformations.  The  seed,  the  plant, 
the  blossom,  the  fruit, — these  are  the 
types  of  her  gradual  workings.  If  there 
be  examples  of  men  regenerated  by  a 
single  experience,  these  are  so  rare  as 
only  to  prove  the  general  rule  of  patient 
progression.  In  the  present  case  the 
young  man's  better  nature  had  been 
stirred  :  that  was  all.  After  influences 
must  decide  whether  the  first  impression 
was  to  grow  and  strengthen,  or  to  fade 
out,  leaving  him  to  sink  back  again  to 
the  level  of  his  former  life. 

One  of  these  influences  followed  close 
on  his  release.  During  the  evening  of 
the  next  day,  Kullen,  the  prison-agent, 
came  to  see  his  emancipated  client.  No 
need  to  say  how  he  was  received  ! 
Norah  gave  him  both  her  hands,  unable 
at  first,  in  her  agitation,  to  utter  a  word ; 
but,  in  default  of  speech,  she  offered  to 
the  preserver  of  her  husband  her  matron 
cheek  to  kiss.  Terence  spoke  with  all 
the  warmth  of  his  country : 

"  Mister  Kullen,  it's  ovvin'  to  you  that 
I'm  alive,  and,  more  nor  that,  that  I  can 
stand  up  and  face  the  world  like  an  hon 
est  man.  It's  all  owin'  to  you,  wid  yer 
cheering  ways  and  yer  lovely  stories, 


that  Norah's  got  a  husband  and  the  chil- 
dher's  got  their  father  back  agin.  It's  no 
earthly  use  to  speak  about  payin'  such  a 
debt  as  that ;  but  sure  ye  know,  Mister 
Kullen  " — here  the  tears  rose  to  the  poor 
fellow's  eyes — "  sure  an'  ye  know,  with 
out  iver  my  tellin'  ye,  that,  as  long  as 
Norah  and  me's  got  a  roof  over  our 
heads,  come  rain,  come  shine,  let  it  be 
mornin'  or  noon  or  black  midnight,  ye'll 
be  as  welcome  to  our  fireside  as  the 
flowers  in  May." 

Then  he  hesitated,  as  if  he  didn't 
know  exactly  how  to  proceed.  At  last 
he  brought  out :  "An,  Mister  Kullen, 
you  wouldn't  be  refusin'  a  poor  fellow 
the  little  he  can  do  for  you.  I  heard 
down  yonder — it  was  Walter  Richards 
tould  me — that  yer  salary's  but  a  small 
one,  Mister  Kullen,  for  all  the  good  ye 
do.  Now,  ye  see,  I've  got  two  hundred 
and  fifty  dollars  in  the  bank,  and  sorra  a 
bit  o'  use  I  have  for  it  now,  becase  I 
can't  buy  the  house,  and  that  was  all  I 
laid  it  up  for — " 

Here  the  prison-agent  interrupted  him  : 
"  You  need  not  say  a  word  about  that, 
Terence  :  the  State  pays  me  for  what  I 
do,  and  it  wouldn't  be  honest  to  take  pay 
twice,  you  know.  But,  since  you  are 
willing  to  do  me  a  pleasure,  what  if  I 
were  to  ask  you  for  something  that  might 
cost  you  more  than  two-  hundred  and  fifty 
dollars  ?" 

Terence's  face  brightened :  « Sure 
an'  I  can  borrow  the  rest,"  he  said. 

"  No,  I  don't  approve  of  a  man  get 
ting  into  debt.  You  can  do  it  without 
borrowing.  How  long  have  you  the 
lease  of  this  house  ?" 

"  Till  the  first  of  May  comin'  :  that's 
near  five  months  and  a  half." 

"  Have  you  clone  well  with  it  ?" 

"  Very  fair.  Last  year  it  cleared  me 
seventeen  hundred  and  fifty  dollars. 
And  this  year,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  that 
damned — ' 

Norah  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm  : 
"  Not  to-day,  Teddy  darlint — not  to-day, 
just  when  the  Lord  sint  ye  back  to  me." 

"Well,  thin,  I  won't  swear,  Norah, 
ef  ye  don't  like  it.  But  ef  it  hadn't 
been  for  that  scoundrel  Bryan — bad  luck 
to  him  ! — sure  there's  no  harm  in  callin 


112 


BEYOND  THE  BREAKERS. 


him  what  he  is,  and  wishin'  him  his 
desarts — I'd  have  made  two  thousand 
dollars  clear  this  very  year  ;  and  I  can 
live  on  half  o'  that  and  lay  by  the  other 
half." 

«  How  much  of  the  profit  you  make 
is  from  the  bar  and  how  much  by 
lodgers  ?" 

"  It's  close  on  half  and  half." 
"  So  you  expect  to  clear  from  the  bar, 
between  this  and  the  first  of  May,  some 
seven  or  eight  hundred  dollars  ?" 
"  Full  that." 

"  Unless  some  rascal  like  that  Delorny 
should  play  you  just  such  another  trick 
as  he  did." 

"Yes,  Mister  Kullen  ;  but  I've  hearn 
old  sailors,  as  has  been  to  the  war,  say 
that  a  cannon-ball  niver  comes  through 
the  same  hole  twice." 

"  Well,  Terence,  to  confess  the  truth, 
I  don't  think  it  likely  that  anybody,  in 
the  next  six  months,  will  accuse  you  of 
going  into  a  bed-room  at  night  and  steal 
ing  a  hundred  and  seventy  dollars.  But 
something  as  bad  might  happen.  Norah, 
did  Terence  use  to  swear  when  you 
lived  in  Cumberland  county  ?" 

"  No,  Mister  Kullen,  niver  a  bit :  he's 
larnt  it—" 

"  Behind  the  bar-counter  ?" 
The   young  wife   flushed  scarlet,  and 
looked  at  her  husband. 

"You're  a  good  girl,  Norah,"  said 
Mr.  Kullen.  »  I  see  I  shall  have  your 
help.  Terence,  what  would  you  say  if 
that  eldest  boy  of  yours  were  to  come 
out  with  an  oath  ?" 

«  Deny  knows  better  nor  that,  Mr. 
Kullen  :  his  mother's  larned  him 
better." 

»  I'm  glad  to  hear  it.  I  once  knew 
an  excellent  man  who  had  served  as 
lieutenant,  and  then  as  captain,  for  fifteen 
years  under  the  First  Napoleon.  He 
came  to  this  country  poor  and  learned 
English  perfectly.  He  had  received  a 
college  education  before  he  entered  the 
armv,  and  he  set  up  school  and  became 
an  excellent  teacher.  One  habit  of  the 
soldier,  however,  clung  to  him.  When 
his  pupils  proved  unruly  he  would  swear 
One  day  he  was  much  shocked  to  hear 
a  youngster  of  twelve,  who  had  been 


vith  him  a  year  or  two,  utter  a  round 
oath.  *  Dick,  don't  you  know  you 
mustn't  swear  ?'  said  his  teacher:  'it's 
.vrong  and  it's  vulgar.'  <  But  if  it's 
wrong,  Mr.  Tinel,'  said  the  boy,  half 
afraid  to  finish  his  question  —  '  if  it's 
wrong,  why  do  you  swear  ?'  <  Because 
I'm  a  damned  fool,'  was  the  rejoinder: 
don't  you  be  one  too  !'  Now,  Terence, 
f  little  Dermot,  imitating  his  father, 
should  venture  on  an  oath,  would  you 
like  to  give  him  such  a  reply  as  that  ?" 

Norah  interposed :  "  Where's  the 
loss  to  be  droppin'  a  word  or  two  out  o' 
yer  talk,  Teddy  asthore — and  a  bad  word 
at  that — that  ye  should  be  refusin'  the 
likes  o'  Mr.  Kullen  ?" 

"  Well,  it's  little  enough  to  promise 
for  them  as  has  done  so  much  for  me  : 
I  won't  swear  no  more." 

"  But  for  your  children's  sake,  and 
for  your  own,  I  want  you  to  do  some 
thing  else,  Terence.  It's  a  good  deal 
to  ask  you.  I  want  you  to  give  up  that 
seven  or  eight  hundred  dollars  —  in  a 
word,  to  close  your  bar." 

Norah  clasped  her  hands  with  a  look 
of  entreaty.  Her  husband  sat  silent, 
looking  first  at  her,  then  at  Mr.  Kullen. 
The  proposal  evidently  took  him  by 
surprise. 

»  Listen  to  me  before  you  answer," 
pursued  the  agent,  "and  then  I'll  leave 
you  to  talk  it  over  with  Norah  there. 
It  would  be  a  terrible  thing,  Terence,  if 
a  man  like  you,  that  God  has  given  so 
good  a  wife  to,  were  to  go  to  the  bad. 
And,  let  me  tell  you,  that  might  happen. 
Men  are  not  depraved  sots  because  they 
frequent  a  bar-room,  but  they're  on  the 
way  to  be  good  for  nothing,  or  worse. 
Then,  a  tippling-house  attracts  riff-raff. 
Yours  attracted  Delorny,  a  common 
drunkard.  See  what  came  of  it.  You're 
not  safe  among  such  men." 

Norah  turned  pale,  changed  her  seat 
to  one  close  to  her  husband  and  took 
his  hand  in  hers. 

"It's  true,  Terence,"  added  Kullen. 
"  You're  easy  and  good-natured — just  the 
sort  of  man  that  might  take  the  color  of 
his  life  from  the  ways  of  his  associates. 
Just  the  man,  too,  to  be  imposed  on  by 
swindlers.  But  no  man  is  safe  with 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


1*3 


thieves  and  perjurers  around  him.  An 
innocent  man's  always  more  or  less  at 
their  mercy  ;  and  next  time  I  mightn't 
be  there  to  help  you  out." 

The  tears  were  in  Norah's  eyes. 
Terence  wiped  them  away  with  a  gentle 
ness  one  would  hardly  have  expected  of 
him,  and  kissed  her. 

"That's  not  all,"  said  Kullen.  "Do 
you  think  a  man  deserves  to  be  helped 
out,  if,  after  Ije  has  once  been  warned, 
he  still  keeps  on  with  a  business  that 
makes  men  worse  instead  of  better  ?  I 
lived  many  years  in  the  West,  where 
crimes  then  were  rare  and  could  be 
easily  traced  to  their  source  ;  and  I 
know  that  two-thirds  of  them  began  in 
tippling-houses,  and  in  the  habits  that 
grew  out  of  them.  Two  crimes  out  of 
every  three  that  were  committed,  Ter 
ence  !  and  growing  out  of  just  such 
places  as  that  room  of  yours  below, 
where  Patrick  Murphy  is  tending  bar." 

At  this  juncture  little  Dermot  came 
into  the  room.  Kullen  and  he  had  made 
close  acquaintance  during  the  visits  of 
the  former  to  Mrs.  O'Reilly,  when  he 
brought  her  news  how  her  husband  fared 
during  his  imprisonment  ;  and  the  child 
ran,  delighted,  to  his  friend.  Kullen 
took  him  on  his  knee  and  resumed  : 

"  The  very  day  you  were  arrested, 
Terence,  you  would  probably,  but  for 
the  arrest,  have  bought  this  house.  The 
chances  are  you  would  have  kept  it,  sell 
ing  brandy  and  whisky  to  all  comers, 
till  this  boy  of  yours  was  a  young  man  ; 
perhaps  till  he  got  into  the  habit  of 
coming,  two  or  three  times  a  day,  for  a 
dram  ;  perhaps  till  he  learned  to  make 
companions  of  such  men  as  Bryan'  De- 
lorny.  Are  you  quite  sure  Providence 
did  not  send  you  to  prison  that  day,  so 
that  this  chubby  little  fellow  might  grow 
up  under  more  wholesome  surroundings 
and  with  better  associates  ?  You  love 
that  wife  of  yours,  Terence,  and  well  she 
deserves  it.  Have  you  ever  thought 
that  it  might  break  her  heart  if  Deny 
turned  out  a  drunkard  ?" 

Norah  had  listened  with  ever-increas 
ing  excitement ;  and  now  she  threw  her 
arms  round  her  husband's  neck,  gave 
him  one  bright,  hopeful  look,  then  laid 
8 


her  head  on  his  bosom  and  sobbed  as  if 
her  heart  would  break. 

Love  has  its  triumphs  in  the  humblest 
breast.  The  good  fellow,  more  than 
half  persuaded  by  Kullen's  earnestness, 
was  wholly  won  over  by  his  wife's  silent 
emotion. 

«  Whisht,  lassie,"  he  said,  passing  his 
brawny  hand  soothingly  over  her  long 
soft  hair  —  «  whisht,  then,  me  darlint. 
D'ye  think  I'd  bring  up  that  babe  to  be 
a  drunkard  ?  I  know  what  ye'd  be  axin' 
me,  acushla,  and  d'ye  think  I'd  refuse 
ye,  this  very  day  that  the  Lord  brought 
me  back  to  yer  arms  ?"  Then  to  the 
prison-agent :  "  Maybe  the  arrest  was 
His  doin',  Mr.  Kullen.  It  looks  like 
He  sint  you  to  that  cell  to  save  me  life 
and  me  character ;  and  who  knows  but 
what  He's  sint  ye  here  to-day  to  talk  to 
me  about  Derry  and  that  bar  ?  It'll  be 
all  I  can  do  " — he  winced  a  little  at  this 
— "  to  make  the  two  ends  meet  without 
the  bar.  But,  ony  way,  I'll  not  be  after 
standin'  'out  agin  the  Lord  and  you 
and  the  lassie.  Til  sell  off  the  liquors 
and  quit  the  trade  bright  and  early  to- 
morra." 

Norah  looked  up,  smiling  through  her 
tears.  "Thin  my  heart's  continted," 
was  all  she  said. 

Before  Kullen  went  he  said  to  Ter 
ence  :  "  I  heard  when  I  was  in  Cumber 
land  county  that  Norah's  a  famous  dairy- 
woman.  You  understand  market-gar 
dening  and  keeping  stock  and  managing 
horses.  If  you  choose  to  go  into  the 
country  when  you  leave  this  house,  I'll 
recommend  you  to  a  friend  of  mine  in 
the  West,  who  wants  a  man  and  his 
wife  to  take  care  of  his  farm.  Would 
you  like  to  ride  a  real  horse,  Master 
Dermot  ? 

<•  Wouldn't  I,  Mr.  Kullen  ?"  said  young 
America. 

Terence  kept  his  promise.  His  for 
mer  companions  were  not  a  little  sur 
prised  ;  and  one  of  them,  a  strapping 
young  fellow,  said  that  same  evening, 
when  Terence  announced  to  them  his 
intentions  : 

"  So,  Teddy,  you've  turned  milksop 
since  they  had  you  under  lock  and  key." 

Terence's  eyes  flashed  and  he  had  an 


U4 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


oath  on  the  tip  of  his  tongue,  but  he  re 
membered  his  promise  to  Norah  : 

"  I've  changed  some  of  my  opinions, 
Mister  Malone,  bein'  I  don't  intend  to 
sell  no  more  drinks  to  the  likes  o'  you. 
But  there's  one  opinion  1  haven't  changed 
at  all,  at  all,  Mister  Malone." 

«  What's  that  ?" 

"That  whatever  a  man's  sintiments 
is,  he  ought  to  stand  up  to  them  like  a 
man  /"  the  last  three  words  very  dis 
tinctly  accented. 

Thereupon  Terence  deliberately  laid 
off  his  coat  on  a  chair,  and  took  his 
place  in  the  centre  of  the  room  ;  adding, 
in  a  civil  tone  :  "  Any  time  ye're  ready, 
Mister  Malone." 


But  Malone  didn't  seem  quite  ready, 
and  the  others  interfered  : 

«  Not  the  last  evening,  O'Reilly  :  let's 
part  good  friends,  any  way." 

"Ye're  no  coward,  Terence,"  said 
Malone  :  "  nobody  ever  said  you  was. 
And  sure  a  man  has  a  right  to  his  opin 
ions,  and  a  right  to  sell  liquor  or  not  as 
he  pleases." 

Terence  resumed  his  coat,  and  they 
all  parted  in  amity.  Whether  Malone's 
conciliatory  speech  —  just  though  the 
aphorisms  were  which  it  contained — 
tended  to  raise  him  in  the  estimation  of 
the  man  he  had  offended,  we  need  not 
too  curiously  inquire. 


PART    VI 


CHAPTER   XIX. 
THE   SIX-ACRE   LOT. 

THROUGHOUT  the  winter  that  fol 
lowed  Terence's  liberation  from 
prison  and  Creighton's  defeat  for  Con 
gress,  events  of  great  importance  to  some 
of  our  Chiskauga  acquaintances  were 
ripening ;  yet  on  the  surface  matters 
seemed  to  proceed  smoothly  enough. 
The  place  made  progress,  socially  and 
intellectually. 

Under  Ethan  Hartland's  supervision, 
Sydenham's  land  operations  had  turned 
out  (as  all  bargains  worthy  to  be  called 
good,  do)  profitable  alike  to  seller  and 
buyer.  There  had,  indeed,  been  attempts 
to  evade  the  prescribed  stipulations  for 
building  and  improvements :  men  pleaded 
illness  or  bad  luck — pleas  sometimes 
fsigned,  sometimes  real — and  Syden 
ham's  easy  temper  induced  him  to  grant 
indulgence.  This,  as  Hartland  showed 
his  employer,  usually  resulted  in  a  sale 
to  third  parties,  who  bought  on  specu 
lation  and  refused  to  improve,  setting  up 
the  plea  that  the  seller  had  waived  his 
right  to  enforce  the  provision  on  that 
subject. 

The  young  man  said,  one  day :  «  Mr. 
Sydenham,  may  I  speak  to  you  very 
frankly?" 

"If  you    think   well   of   me,    Ethan, 


you    will    speak,  to    me    frankly    at    all 
times." 

"  Thank  you.  If  a  purchaser,  through 
ill  health  or  bad  management,  is  unable 
to  pay  his  land-notes  at  maturity,  and  if 
you  give  him  an  extension  of  time  in 
which  to  pay  them,  it  is  entirely  your 
affair.  If  you  can  afford  it,  and  if  the 
man  has  done  his  best,  I  think  it  kind 
and  wise  in  you  to  do  so.  But  if  he 
fails  to  comply  with  the  stipulation  for 
improvement,  have  you  the  right  to  in 
dulge  him  ?  You  gave  public  notice, 
through  me,  to  all  who  desired  to  pur 
chase,  that  your  land  would  be  sold  only 
to  those  who  would  build  and  occupy  it. 
You  permitted  me,  also,  to  head  the 
bonds  of  agreement  with  the  words, 
<-No  purchase  without  improvement.  1 1 
was  a  virtual  promise  on  your  part,  upon 
which  men  depended  ;  and,  because  of  it, 
your  land  has  been  sold  much  more 
rapidly,  for  purchasers  know  well  that 
the  tendency  of  occupancy  and  improve 
ment  is  to  give  additional  value  to  all  ad 
jacent  property.  Thus  it  is  no  longer 
your  affair  only.  Others  are  injured  if 
you  give  way." 

«  That  is  a  just  view  of  the  case." 

"  May  I  bring  suit  against  these  non- 
complying  speculators  ?" 

"Yes." 

It  made  quite  a  flurry  among  them. 
"5 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


One  man,  who  had  bought  up  three  or 
four  farms,  was  overheard  threatening 
personal  violence  against  Mr.  Sydenham. 
This  coming  to  his  ears,  he  sent  for 
Ethan. 

«  Hereafter,"  he  said  to  him,  "  I  will 
take  no  excuse  or  apology  whatever  for 
violation  of  our  improvement  covenants. 
If  you  find  any  case  where  a  deserving 
man,  from  continued  sickness  or  other 
unavoidable  misfortune,  cannot  comply 
with  these,  report  it  to  me,  and  I  will 
lend  him  the  money  that  may  be  neces 
sary  to  fulfill  his  engagement.  In  all 
other  cases  press  the  suits  to  a  verdict." 
Ethan  smiled  :  "  Have  you  heard  of 
the  threats  Tom  Bellinger  has  been 
making?" 
"Yes." 

"  I  thought  so." 

«  I  hold  it  a  duty  to  see  to  it,  so  far 
as  I  can,  that  those  who  defy  the  law 
shall  make  nothing  by  it." 

« Tom  is  from  Western  Missouri  : 
they're  a  wild  set  there.  Shall  you  arm 
yourself?" 

"  With  a  good,  stout  cane — yes  ;  but 
I  have  no  idea  I  shall  need  it.  There  is 
an  old  proverb  that  'threatened  folks 
live  long.'  " 

Tom  Bellinger  subsided  ;  and  several 
other  well-dreesed  men,  who,  for  a  month 
or  two  past,  had  been  seen  saunterin 
with  gilt- headed  canes,  through  the 
streets  of  the  village,  gradually  disap 
peared.  Chiskauga  survived  their  ab 
sence. 

One,   however,    more    obstinate   than 
the  rest,  remained  and  resorted  to  law 
his  plea  being  that  covenants  for  build 
ing  and  other  improvements  to  be  com 
pleted  within  a  given  time  were  of  no 
binding  force,  and  that  a  purchaser,  even 
after  such   covenant  in  writing,  was  en 
titled  to  a  deed  as  soon  as  the  purchase 
money  was  paid.     The  court,  however 
decided  that  covenants  of  that  characte 
constituted    a    lawful    consideration,    in 
which    time   was    an   essential   element 
and  that  non-compliance  with  them  wa 
legal  cause  of  forfeiture. 

From  this  time  on,  Sydenham  addec 
to  the  covenants  of  his  land-agreement 
a  provision  that  no  assignment  of  sue 


^reements  should  be  made  before  the 
mprovements  were  completed;  and. thai 
n  pain  of  forfeiture.  This  and  the 
ther  covenants  somewhat  retarded  the 
ales  for  a  time  ;  yet  within  five  years 
rom  the  day  Ethan  became  manager  the 
rst  two  thousand  five  hundred  acres 
were  all  sold  and  occupied.  The  al- 
ernate  farms  and  lots  that  had  been 
eserved  from  sale  had,  meanwhile, 
isen  in  value  about  seventy-five  per 
cent. 

Then   Sydenham  instructed  his  agent 

0  offer  these  remaining  two  thousand 
five    hundred   acres   at  seventy-five  per 
cent,  advance  on  the  prices  to  which,  so 
far,  he  had  adhered  ;  but  as  this  left  the 

and  still  at  two-thirds  only  of  the  cur 
rent  market  rates,  and  as,  by  this  time, 
t  had  become  evident  that  Sydenham's 
stipulations  of  sale  resulted  quite  as 
much  to  the  benefit  of  the  purchaser  as 
to  his  own,  this  last-offered  land  went 
off  even  more  rapidly  than  the  first.  At 
the  end  of  three  years  more— which 
brought  it  up  to  the  preceding  spring- 
Ethan,  one  afternoon,  reported  the  whole 
sold  out. 

"What  net  gain  have  I  made."  Syd 
enham  asked  Ethan,  "by  the  advance 
of  price,  on  this  second  installment  of 
farms  and  building  lots  ?" 

«  So  far,  about  fourteen  thousand  dol 
lars  ;  but  when  your  land-notes  are  paid 
up,  there  will  be  some  eight  or  ten  thou 
sand  more." 

"  You  have  managed  well.     The  sales, 

1  think,  do  not  include  a  six-acre  build 
ing  site  on  the  lake,  just  north  of  the 
Elm  Walk— a  site  you  admired,  one  day, 
Ethan,  as  the  prettiest  we  had." 

«  I  remember.  It  is  unsold  ;  I  fol 
lowed  your  instructions  to  reserve  it, 
and  to  have  it  neatly  fenced^  in  and 
nicely  graded,  and  laid  out  and  planted. 
I  could  have  sold  it  fifty  times  over.  I 
refused  two  thousand  for  it  last  week : 
it  is  worth  much  more  than  that." 

"Make  out  a  deed  of  it  to  yourself, 
and  bring  it  to  me  for  signature  to-mor 
row  morning.  Nay,"  he  added,  as  he 
noticed  the  young  man's  look,  "it  is  my 
turn  now  :  you  had  your  way  last  time. 
You  made  me  do  violence  to  my  con- 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


117 


science  by  accepting  your  services  for 
three  years  at  seven  hundred  and  twenty 
dollars." 

« Which  you  increased,  first  to  a 
thousand,  and  then  to  twelve  hundred." 
«  It  ought  to  have  been  fifteen  hun 
dred  long  ago.  Please  credit  yourself 
at  that  rate  from  the  close  of  this  half 
year.  As  to  the  two  thousand,  I  owe 
you  twice  that  sum,  fairly  reckoned  ; 
only  I  thought  the  lot  was  as  much  as  I 
could  get  that  obstinate  nature  of  yours 
to  accept.  And  then,  listen  !  I  have  ad 
ditional  work  for  you  to  do.  You  need 
not  look  so  incredulous — I  have." 

The  tears  glistened  in  Ethan's  eyes, 
but  Sydenham  proceeded  as  if  he  had 
not  noticed  them  : 

" You  have  been  studying  practical 
architecture  of  evenings,  I  know,  and  I've 
had  proof  enough  what  a  neat  draughts 
man  you  are.  I  want  a  plan  of  a  house. 
Now,  don't  be  frightened,  man  :  I'm  not 
going  to  offer  to  build  you  one  :  you'll 
have  to  lay  by  money,  and  attend  to 
that,  one  of  these  days,  yourself." 
Ethan  could  not  help  smiling. 
« Ah  !"  said  Sydenham,  "  now  we 
can  attend  to  business.  I  wish  to  have 
a  '  Land-Trust  Account '  opened  on  the 
books  of  the  estate.  Let  it  be  credited 
with  that  fourteen  thousand  dollars,  or 
whatever  the  gain  by  advance  on  land 
has  been.  Then  add  to  the  credit  what 
ever  more  may  come  in  from  the  same 
source.  You  must  help  me  expend  this 
fund  for  the  benefit  of  the  village  and  of 
the  neighborhood." 

"  It  is  a  pleasure  to  work  for  you,  Mr. 
Sydenham." 

"  Then  pray  set  about  the  plan  of  my 
building." 

"  When  I  know  what  you  want." 
"  Tea,  in  the  first  place,"  said  Syden 
ham,  as  the   bell  rang.      »  Stay  with  us, 
Ethan,  and  let  us  talk  this  over." 

Mrs.  Clymer  had  gone  out  for  the 
evening,  and  Leoline  presided  at  the  tea- 
table. 

To  an  understanding  of  Sydenham's 
views,  it  should  be  premised  that  there 
were  in  the  village  two  small  public 
libraries — one  belonging  to  a  «  Working 
Man's  Institute,''  established  ten  years 


Before,  and  the  other  the  township  library. 
The  first  had  been  aided  by  a  gift  from 
ydenham  and  by  a  legacy  of  one  thou 
sand  dollars  left  by  an  eccentric  old  gen 
tleman  named  Lechaux :  it  contained 
about  twelve  hundred  volumes.  In  the 
township  library,  to  which  Sydenham 
and  others  had  contributed,  there  were 
six  hundred;  but  both  were  in  small, 
inconvenient  premises,  and  were  kept 
open  one  evening  only  in  the  week,  when 
books  were  lent  out ;  there  being  no 
fund  to  pay  a  librarian.  The  one  public 
hall  in  the  village  would  seat  five  hun 
dred  people,  but  was  owned  by  a  com 
pany  of  young  men,  some  belonging  to 
the  brass  band  and  others  members  of  a 
Thespian  society,  and  could  only  be  had 
on  rent  from  them.  It  was  used  for 
balls,  concerts,  theatrical  representations, 
township  meetings,  political  gatherings 
and  the  like. 

"What  I  want,"  said  Sydenham  to 
Ethan,  "  is  a  plain,  substantial,  two-story 
brick  building — the  lower  story  laid  out, 
at  one  end,  as  a  library  and  reading-room, 
and  at  the  other  as  a  small  lecture-room, 
to  hold  two  hundred  persons  ;  the  library 
to  contain  all  the  books  belonging  to  the 
Institute  and  to  the  township,  with  room 
for  two  or  three  thousand  more  ;  and  the 
lecture-room  to  be  free  for  public  read 
ings,  for  literary  or  scientific  lectures, 
and  for  the  meetings  of  the  Agricultural 
and  Floral  societies.  The  upper  story  I 
intend  for  school-rooms." 
«  For  Miss  Ethelridge  ?" 
«  Yes.  I  learn  that  she  is  likely  soon 
to  be  crowded  out  of  the  two  rooms  she 
is  now  occupying  in  the  public  school  ; 
and  they  have  long  been  too  '-mall  for 
her." 

"  Altogether  too  small.     She  engaged 
a   second   assistant    teacher    last   week. 
But  there  is  one  objection  to  the  plan." 
"And  that  is  ?" 

"  The  noise  of  the  school-rooms  above 
might  disturb  the  frequenters  of  the 
reading-room.  Ah  !  I  have  it  !  Eight 
or  nine  inches  of  deafening  below  the 
upper  floor.  Then  Miss  Ethelridge's 
classes  are  always  so  orderly  and  quiet. 
It  can  all  be  arranged,  Mr.  Sydenham." 
"We  have  a  half-acre  lot  just  oppo- 


iiS 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


site  Mr.  Hartland's :  take  that.  Will 
six  or  seven  thousand  dollars  put  up 
the  building." 

"  The  latter,  at  all  events." 
"  Then  set  apart,  for  the  object,  seven 
thousand  from  our  land-trust  fund." 

Leoline  startled  them  by  breaking  in 
here  :  «  Papa,  I  do  believe  you  are  the 
very  best  man  that  ever  did  live.  I'm 
so  glad  for  dear  Miss  Ethelridge." 

Ethan's  face  brightened  with  pleasure, 
and,  as  he  looked  at  Leoline's  kindling 
eyes,  with  admiration. 

« I'm  delighted  that  you  think  I've 
been  behaving  well,  dear  child,"  said 
Sydenham,  smiling:  "perhaps  I  shall 
stand  some  chance  now  of  a  second  cup 
of  tea.  I've  been  wondering  when  you 
would  make  up  your  mind  to  pour  it 
out." 

"'The  common  lot,  papa  !  Good  deeds 
shine  like  farthing  candles  in  a  naughty 
world.  But,  since  virtue  is  not  its  own 
sufficient  reward,  there  !  not  a  grain  too 
much  sugar,  not  a  drop  too  little  cream." 
"  Lela  dear,  I  want  you  to  take  a  good 
look  at  that  engraving,  in  the  library, 
from  Dubufe's  picture." 

"  Of  the  poor  widow  who  put  two 
mites  into  the  treasury  ?" 

"  Do  you  remember  what  was  said  of 
her  ?" 

"  That  while  others  had  lavished  their 
charities,  she  had  given  more  than  they 
all." 

"Yes.  'They,  of  their  abundance, 
cast  in  offerings,  but  she,  of  her  penury, 
cast  in  all  she  had.'  " 

"  I  think  you'd  have  handed  out  the 
two  mites,  papa  dear." 

"  Who  knows  ?  I  have  never  been 
tried.  In  giving  these  people  this  build 
ing  I  do  not  abate  one  comfort,  either 
yours  or  my  own." 

"  But  I  think  they  ought  to  do  their 
part." 

"  So  do  I,  Miss  Leoline,"  said  Ethan  ; 
"  I  wish  you  would  try  to  persuade  your 
father  to  let  me  head  a  subscription  with 
his  name  for  seven  thousand  dollars,  to 
be  paid  only  on  condition  that  half  as 
much  more  is  subscribed  by  others. 
The  fitting  up  and  furnishing  of  such  a 
building  will  cost  some  fifteen  hundred 


dollars,  and  we  ought  to  have  two  thou 
sand,  in  addition,  to  purchase  standard 
works  that  are  much  needed.  That 
would  make  the  thing  complete.  It 
isn't  the  best  plan,  Mr.  Sydenham,  to  let 
people,  in  a  village  like  this,  get  into  the 
habit  of  depending  on  one  man  for  all 
public  improvements.  They  value  more 
that  to  which  they  have  partly  con 
tributed." 

To  this  Sydenham  finally  assented. 
"They  shall  have  the  management  of 
the  library  and  lecture-room,"  he  said, 
"provided  no  charge  beyond  lighting 
and  heating  is  made  for  the  latter." 

"  And  you  retain  in  your  own  hands 
the  disposition  of  the  upper  rooms  ?" 

«  That  would  be  fair,  and  perhaps  I 
had  better  do  so." 

"  Decidedly."  Then,  after  a  pause  : 
"You  wish  to  give  Miss  Ethelridge  what 
aid  you  can  ?" 

"  Certainly.  She  is  an  honor  to  the 
place." 

"  Then  perhaps,  as  I  shall  have  leisure 
on  my  hands  now  that  we  have  sold  that 
land,  you  would  not  object  to  my  offering 
to  give  German  lessons  in  her  school 
twice  a  week.  Some  of  her  pupils  are 
desirous  of  learning  that  language,  and  I 
am  anxious  to  keep  up  my  familiarity 
with  it.  But  I  shall  have  to  say  that  it 
is  your  time  I  am  giving  her:  she  would 
not  accept  my  volunteer  aid." 

"  It  is  an  excellent  idea,  Ethan.  Carry 
it  out." 

"  May  I  join  Mr.  Hartland's  class, 
papa  ?"  said  Leoline. 

"  By  all  means,  my  child.  Thanks  to 
Miss  Ethelridge,  you  read  and  write 
French  fluently  enough.  I  shall  be  very 
glad  that  you  give  some  time  now  to  a 
language  that  has  always  been  a  favorite 
with  me.  Ethan's  accent  is  perfect." 

When  Ethan  Hartland  left  Rosebank 
that  evening  he  could  not  make  up  his 
mind  to  return  directly  home.  A  full 
moon  shone  down  brilliantly  from  a 
cloudless  sky.  His  heart  needed  the 
quieting  influence.  It  was  full  of  grati 
tude,  and  not  without  hope,  but  it  was 
restless :  the  hope  was  dashed  with 
uncertainty. 


The  figure  that  Ethan  saw  on  the  Lake  shore. 

[Beyond  the  Breakers.] 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


119 


He  took  a  path  leading  up  the  hill 
which  surmounted  Sydenham's  residence, 
and,  when  he  reached  the  edge  of  the 
forest  at  a  point  which  overlooked  the 
valley  for  miles,  he  sat  down  to  com 
mune  with  that  restless  heart  of  his. 

It  was  a  warmer  heart  than  Ethan's 
common  acquaintances  at  all  imagined  it 
to  be  ;  coming  to  him,  not  from  his  hard 
father,  but  from  the  quiet,  anxious,  affec 
tionate  mother  he  still  remembered  so 
well ;  as  gentle,  though  not  with  as  much 
character,  as  his  stepmother.  Strange, 
that  these  austere  social  dictators  so 
often  seek  and  win  their  opposites  ! — 
perhaps  from  an  instinctive  feeling  of  the 
need  that,  in  the  next  generation,  their 
own  asperities  should  be  corrected. 

«  If  he  knew,  if  he  could  but  imagine" 
— that  was  the  first  thought — "what  a 
kindness  he  has  done  me  !  How  much 
more  of  a  father  than  my  own  !  In 
another  year  I  shall  have  saved  enough 
to  build — in  a  very  humble  way,  to  be 
sure — but  perhaps —  Then  the  heart 
began  to  sink  a  little.  "  So  far  above 
me — so  beyond  my  sphere  ! — in  educa 
tion,  in  manners,  in  accomplishments  ! 
She  ought  to  be  a  queen  !  Not  that 
she  assumes  ;  ah  no  :  who  has  less  pre 
tension  than  she  ?  But  there  is  no  sta 
tion  she  would  not  grace.  And  what 
have  I  to  offer  ?" 

He  looked  dreamily  out  into  the  soft 
moonlight :  "  It  is  not  so  brilliant  as  the 
blaze  of  day,  but  how  peaceful  !  Who 
knows  but  that  she  might  be  satisfied 
with  my  lot  ?  Peace  is  so  much  in  this 
world — peace  and  affection.  And  how 
many,  how  many,  miss  them  both  !" 

With  that  his  thoughts  reverted  to  a 
large,  formal  dwelling  down  in  the  vil 
lage,  where  the  heart  of  one  parent  was 
closed  to  him,  and  the  pensive  eyes  of 
another  awoke  sympathy  and  sorrow — 
reverted  to  that  half  home,  then  wan 
dered  down  toward  the  lake,  past  a 
stately  avenue  of  elms,  to  a  charming 
spot,  untenauted  yet,  but  where  Nature 
and  Art  had  combined  to  prepare  a  site 
for  a  simple,  happy  home.  Nothing,  in 
deed,  to  tempt  worldly  grandeur  :  a  few 
acres  only,  decked  out  with  no  ambitious 
embellishment;  fresh  greensward  sloping 


gently  down  to  the  pebbly  shore  of  the 
lake ;  back  of  that  a  little  tastefully- 
selected  shrubbery  intersected  with  a 
gravel-path  ;  then  a  few  clumps  of  trees 
so  disposed  as  to  leave  vacant  a  building 
spot  on  the  highest  point  of  the  site  ; 
back  of  that  again,  two  or  three  acres 
of  blue-grass  pasture.  Commonplace  a 
worldling  would  have  thought  it — dull 
and  commonplace  :  Ethan's  thoughts  in 
vested  it  with  a  halo  of  light.  The 
young  man  dreamed  dreams — dreams 
of  a  picturesque  cottage  among  those 
clumps  of  trees ;  and  from  its  porch, 
shaded  with  woodbine  and  eglantine,  he 
looked  out  eastward  on  the  lake  ;  then 
across,  on  the  left,  to  its  pine-crowned 
barrier  of  cliff,  and  saw  the  summer  sun 
rise  from  behind  the  pines.  And  in  his 
dream  he  thought :  "Ah  !  if  she  were 
but  here  to  rejoice  with  me  in  that  glo 
rious  sunrise  !"  And,  with  that,  there 
was  a  light  step  coming  from  within, 
and  there  was  a  gentle  touch  on  his 
shoulder ;  and  he  turned  to  look  into 
eyes  that  he  had  never  yet  ventured,  ex 
cept  in  dreams,  fairly  to  encounter. 
Such  eyes  !  He  had  found  out  their 
color  at  last ! 

Then  it  all  faded  away,  and  he  was 
out  in  the  dim  world  again,  talking  to 
men,  attending  to  business.  How  tedious 
they  were  !  He  thought  it  would  never 
end.  But  at  last  there  came  tender 
moonlight,  and  he  was  walking,  all  alone, 
down  a  familiar  avenue,  and  thinking 
that  while  he  had  been  gone,  exiled 
from  happiness,  she  had  been  sheltered 
from  the  fervor  of  the  noonday  sun  by 
those  old  elms,  and  that  she  would  come 
forth,  by  and  by,  fresh  and  bright,  to 
meet  him — brighter  than  the  sun,  more 
tender  than  the  moonlight.  Suddenly 
he  saw,  within  that  paradise  of  his, 
standing  on  the  edge  of  the  shingly 
beach,  looking  out  on  the  silver-tinted 
lake,  a  figure  in  white  :  there  was  but 
one  form  in  all  the  world  as  graceful  as 
that ;  and  was  it  waiting  for  him  ?  He 
approached  it  slowly,  with  hesitation,  as 
only  half  assured  that  he  might,  until  it 
turned  upon  him  those  eyes — the  same, 
only  darker  in  the  moonlight ;  and  then 
he  felt  his  welcome.  He  struggled  to 


120 


BETOND    THE   BREAKERS. 


;peak — as  in  dreams  we  often  do — in 
vain.  He  awoke,  on  the  hillside  by  the 
edge  of  the  forest,  alone. 

Was  this  Ethan  Hartland,  the  plod 
ding,  the  practical  ?  —  the  hard  worker 
who  had  gone  his  round  of  humble  duty 
year  after  year  ? — the  prudent  manager 
who  had  made  so  much  money  for  his 
employer  ?  What  business  had  he  with, 
such  dreams  ?  Would  any  of  his  friends 
— even  Sydenham  who  knew  him  best — 
believe  it  of  him  ?  Not  one  of  them. 
Yet  this  was  the  man  himself:  they  were 
acquainted  only  with  the  outer,  work-a- 
day  semblance. 

Nor — though  under  the  glamour  of 
Hope  phantasms  had  been  evoked — was 
this  dream  of  Sydenham's  man-of-busi- 
ness  all  a  dream.  The  moonlight  was 
there  ;  and  there,  in  the  distance,  lay 
the  lake,  with  a  streak  of  silvery  light 
dividing  its  blue  waters.  The  Elm 
Walk,  too— a  dark  line  of  foliage  from 
the  village  to  those  blue  waters ;  and 
near  to  it,  out  in  the  moonlight — 

Ethan  started  up,  strode  down  the 
hill,  through  the  silent  streets  of  the 
village,  and  then,  urged  by  a  strange 
impulse,  along  that  dark  avenue,  turning 
to  the  left  near  its  termination.  No 
white  figure  on  the  lake  shore — he  al 
most  expected  to  see  it — but  there,  un 
der  his  eyes,  and  in  a  few  hours  to  be 
his,  lay  the  fairy-land  of  his  dream — 
the  dotted  groups  of  trees,  the  dainty 
shrubbery,  the  sloping  lawn.  These,  at 
all  events,  were  real.  And  something 
else  which  he  had  heard  at  Sydenham's, 
that  evening,  was  real  too.  "  Twice  a 
week  at  least,"  he  said,  as  he  turned  to 
ward  home — "  twice  a  week  !  Thank 
'God  for  that  !" 

The  summer  had  passed,  and  the  au 
tumn,  bringing  with  it  events  which  we 
have  already  related.  The  subscription, 
as  suggested  by  Ethan,  had  been  filled 
out.  The  proposed  building  had  been 
erected  and  fitted  up  :  the  libraries  con 
solidated,  additional  volumes  purchased  ; 
and  the  lecture-room  had  been  opened, 
with  all  due  ceremony,  by  an  address 
from  Sydenham.  Three  weeks  after  the 
election,  Ellinor  Ethelridge  removed  to 


her  new  rooms.  Ethan's  German  class 
had  increased  in  numbers ;  Celia  and 
Lucille  Meyrac  had  joined  it,  and  Leo- 
line,  the  brightest  scholar  among  them, 
was  a  constant  attendant.  She  thought 
her  new  teacher  "  was  very  nice."' 

This  brings  us  again  to  the  time  when 
Celia  Pembroke  received  that  anonymous 
letter.  It  was  not  followed  up  by  any 
others,  but  reports  injurious  to  Ellen 
Tyler's  reputation  were  bruited  about, 
and  became,  after  a  while,  a  staple  ar 
ticle  of  village  gossip.  No  one  was  able 
to  trace  these  tales  to  their  source,  ex 
cept  Cassiday,  and  in  his  heart  there 
sprang  up  a  cordial  hatred  of  Amos 
Cranstoun.  "  The  infernal  hypocrite  !" 
he  said  to  himself.  "  To  pretend  friend 
ship  for  the  girl,  and  tell  me  she  mustn't 
be  ruined,  and  then  set  to  work  in  the 
dark  and  blast  her  name  !"  But  Cran 
stoun  was  still  paying  him  thirty  dollars 
a  month  to  watch  Celia  ;  so  he  avoided 
an  open  breach  with  him,  and  contented 
himself  with  bitterly  denying  all  scandal 
ous  stories  about  Ellen,  and  knocking 
down  Mrs.  Wrolfgang's  stable-boy,  Sam, 
who  was  speaking  511  of  her. 

Mrs.  Wolfgang  was  a  widow  lady,  past 
middle  age,  who  had  been  many  years 
in  Chiskauga.  She  was  a  sister  of  Mr. 
Hartland  the  elder — an  unfortunate  wo 
man,  sour  and  vicious,  who  seldom  said 
a  good  word  of  any  one,  and  never 
missed  a  chance  to  pass  round  a  piece 
of  scandal.  Through  her,  in  the  course 
of  the  winter,  Cranstoun  contrived  that 
the  evil  rumors  touching  Ellen  Tyler 
should  reach  Celia's  ears  ;  but  when 
Mrs.  Wolfgang  broached  the  subject,  the 
girl  received  it  so  frigidly  that  the  nar 
rator  was  fain  somewhat  to  abridge  her 
story.  Her  comments  upon  it,  however, 
were  sufficiently  pointed  and  envenomed 
— so  pointed,  at  last,  that  the  resolution 
Celia  had  made  not  to  reply  gave  way. 

"  Perhaps  you  can  tell  me,"  she  said, 
«  who  is  the  author  of  these  slanders." 

«  I  only  repeat  what  is  the  common 
talk  of  the  town,"  said  Mrs.  Wolfgang, 
taken  a  little  aback. 

"You  spoke  so  confidently  that  I 
supposed  you  must  know  who  set  the 
common  talk  of  the  town  afloat.  I  dare 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


121 


say  it  was  the  same  tale-bearer  who  sent 
me  a  letter  two  or  three  months  since 
on  this  very  subject,  and  was  ashamed, 
as  he  well  might  be,  to  sign  his  name  to 
the  falsehoods  it  contained." 

"  Oh,  if  you  take  it  in  that  way,  Miss 
Pembroke,  I  have  nothing  more  to 
say." 

"  I  am  glad  of  it,  Mrs.  Wolfgang." 

The  lady  flounced  out  of  the  room. 
"  The  pert  hussy !"  she  said,  as  she 
issued  into  the  street.  «  Cranstoun  shall 
hear  of  this.  He's  a  fool  if  he'll  stand 
that,  even  for  forty  thousand  dollars." 

Cranstoun  did  stand  it  for  some  time. 
He  was  playing  for  a  large  stake,  which 
he  was  unwilling  to  lose  by  rashness,  or 
to  forfeit  so  long  as  a  chance  remained. 
But  during  a  casual  interview  with  Celia, 
one  day,  at  her  uncle's  house,  that  young 
lady's  manner  was  so  unmistakably  dis 
couraging  that  he  began  to  lose  hope 
and  patience.  A  letter  from  England 
which  he  received  in  April  brought  him 
to  a  decision.  "  I  may  as  well  try  my 
fortune  first  as  last,"  he  said  to  himself: 
"  she  drives  me  to  it ;  and,  at  the  worst, 
half  a  loaf  is  better  than  no  bread." 

Thus,  progress  and  plotting  kept  pace 
in  our  little  village.  A  village  is  often 
an  epitome  of  the  great  world. 


CHAPTER   XX. 

PREPARING   FOR   AN    IMPORTANT   MOVE   IN 
THE   GAME. 

CRAXSTOUN  was  a  man  of  quiet  nerves 
and  well-controlled  temper.  He  was  rare 
ly  excited  beyond  equanimity,  and  not 
easil)  startled  out  of  his  self-possession. 

But  any  one  who  could  have  looked 
now  through  the  Venitian  blinds  of  his 
office  —  they  were  carefully  dropped — 
would  have  doubted  his  right  to  the 
character. 

Whatever  the  cause,  he  exhibited  a 
degree  of  nervous  agitation  very  unusual 
with  him.  Now  he  paced  the  small  room 
in  moody  thought,  head  sunk  and  arms 
crossed  behind  his  back.  Now  he  seat 
ed  himself  before  a  large,  baize-covered 
table,  backed  by  numerous  pigeon-holes 
for  papers  ;  absently  took  up  his  pen 


and  drew  a  blank  sheet  before  him  j 
then  threw  the  pen  down,  pushed  the 
paper  impatiently  away,  and  fell  into  a 
long  and  apparently  unsatisfactory  fit  of 
musing. 

"  I  wish  to  God  it  were  over !"  he 
said  at  last,  half  aloud.  Then  he  took 
from  one  of  the  pigeon-holes,  and  began 
to  read,  a  half  sheet  headed  :  «  COPY  : 
Letter  to  C.  Pembroke:'  The  letter, 
dated  the  day  before,  might  have  puz 
zled  any  one  else  to  decipher,  for  it 
was  covered  and  blotted  with  erasures 
and  interlineations ;  and  the  final  docu 
ment  seemed  very  short,  compared  to 
the  original  draft.  It  contained  only 
these  words  : 

«DEAR  Miss  PEMBROKE: 

« When  I  inform  you  that  I  have  a 
communication  of  the  utmost  importance 
to  make  to  you — one  which  will  disclose 
to  you  much  connected  with  your  moth 
er's  early  history,  and  much  involving 
your  future  welfare  ;  and  one  which,  if 
you  do  not  hear  it  from  me,  may  reach 
you  unexpectedly  through  some  less 
friendly  source "  (he  had  it,  at  first, 
"  less  agreeable  source,"  but  agreeable 
was  erased  and  friendly  substituted), 
"and  under  less  advantageous  circum 
stances — I  trust  you  will  favor  me  with 
an  interview  to-morrow  at  ten  o'clock,  or 
at  any  other  day  and  hour  more  con 
venient  to  yourself.  I  name  to-morrow 
at  ten,  because  I  learn  that  your  uncle 
and  aunt  will  both  be  absent  at  that 
hour,  and  I  am  quite  sure  "  (these  two 
words  underscored)  "that,  when  you 
learn  the  nature  of  the  communication, 
you  will  wish  it  made  without  witnesses. 
I  entreat  you  to  believe  this,  and  also 
that  I  am,  most  respectfully, 

"Your  friend  and  well-wisher, 

"AMOS  CRANSTOUN." 

How  that  brow  cleared  as  the  keen 
eyes  ran  over  the  paper  !  The  brief 
and  unwonted  signs  of  agitation  had 
passed  away,  and  there  sat  the  man  in 
his  normal  condition — the  passionless 
player  considering  his  next  move  in 
the  world's  great  game,  calculating  its 
chances,  settling  down  into  conviction  of 


122 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


its  success.  A  complacent  smile  flitted 
over  his  features — a  smile  born  of  such 
thoughts  as  these  : 

"  Nature  cut  you  out  for  a  diplomatist. 
Amos  Cranstoun.  A  fool  would  barely 
have  asked  her  for  a  private  interview 
on  matters  of  importance  to  her  happi 
ness,  and  would  have  had  a  plump  re 
fusal  for  his  pains.  But  l/ier  mother's 
early  history,'  and  then  'a  communica 
tion  which  might  reach  her  unexpectedly 
through  some  less  friendly  source ' — that 
brought  her  down.  Curiosity,  anxiety, 
apprehension — I  stirred  them  all.  And 
they,  being  stirred,  dictated  the  message : 
*Miss  Pembroke  will  be  at  home  at  the 
hour  named.'  The  gypsy  would  not  risk 
a  committal  on  paper  !  She  thinks  her 
self  cunning.  Well,  I  must  play  the 
game  warily.  But  the  devil  is  in  it  if  I 
don't  win  with  such  cards  as  I  hold  in 
my  hands." 

We  are  told  that  the  children  of  this 
world  are,  in  their  generation,  wiser  than 
the  children  of  light.  And  so,  in  one 
sense,  they  assuredly  are.  Cranstoun,  a 
true  world-child,  spurred  on  by  lust  of 
wealth,  of  station,  of  power,  had  studied 
his  fellow-creatures — not  profoundly,  for 
the  most  astute  rascality  is  not  profound 
— but  with  sharp  and  careful  eyes  and 
shrewd  judgment.  In  regard  to  a  large 
portion  of  his  species  it  might  be  said 
that  he  knew  them  well.  Especially 
had  his  study  been  their  weaknesses, 
failings,  besetting  sins,  selfish  ambitions, 
vulnerable  points  of  temptation.  To 
these  he  had  the  clue  within  himself, 
and  he  detected  them  with  keen  scent, 
and  employed  them  with  efficient  cer 
tainty  in  a  thousand  cases  in  which  a 
better  man  would  have  overlooked  or 
neglected  them. 

Thus,  in  the  race  after  riches  and 
honors,  the  world's  children,  wise  after 
their  kind,  often  distance  men  who  in  all 
true  knowledge  are  as  far  above  them 
as  the  heavens  above  the  earth. 

But  there  is  a  point  beyond  which 
this  worldly  wisdom  reaches  not.  Crans 
toun  had  heard,  and  had  often  read  in 
books,  of  generosity,  self-devotion  ;  up 
rightness  that  was  proof  against  earthly 
temptation  ;  love  that,  was  stronger  than 


death.  He  had  a  vague  belief  that  such* 
things  might  be — a  belief  about  as  strong 
and  definite  as  our  grandmothers'  faith 
in  ghosts.  These  romantic  fancies  were 
not  "  dreamed  of  in  his  philosophy  ;"  but 
somewhere,  in  heaven  or  earth,  they 
might,  for  aught  he  could  tell,  have 
existence.  He  had  never  detected  them, 
however  ;  and  he  never  seriously  calcu 
lated  upon  them  as  disturbing  elements 
having  power  to  defeat  any  plan  upon 
which  he  had  set  his  heart. 

Had  Cranstoun,  then,  in  his  walk 
through  life,  never  encountered  any  man 
without  the  taint  of  mercenary  motive 
about  him  ? — never  met  the  generous, 
the  devoted,  the  unselfishly  loving  ? 
Beyond  doubt  he  had  met  them,  had 
come  face  to  face  with  them,  time  after 
time. 

But  seeing,  he  perceived  them  not. 
There  was  nothing  in  his  character  to 
respond  to  or  call  out  the  noblest  parts 
of  theirs.  The  key  was  wanting.  The 
highest  virtues  do  not  stalk  forth  osten 
tatiously  in  the  sunshine.  They-do  not, 
like  die  almsgiving  hypocrites  in  Jesus' 
day,  sound  a  trumpet  before  them  in  the 
synagogues  and  in  the  streets.  They 
enter  into  the  closet  of  the  heart ;  and 
he  who  would  thence  win  them  forth  to 
speech  and  sympathy,  must  possess  the 
signs  and  passwords  of  the  soul's  free 
masonry. 

There  were  men,  then,  beyond  his 
reach,  because  beyond  his  apprehension. 
Virtue  is  a  generously  careless  leader, 
falling  into  many  an  ambush,  paying 
many  a  time  the  penalty  of  over-confi 
dence  ;  but  then,  to  fall  back  upon,  she 
has  an  inner  citadel,  its  pure  recesses 
impregnable,  because  unknown,  to  her 
enemies — accessible  to  those  only  whom 
she  vouchsafes  to  guide. 

The  clock  in  Cranstoun's  room  struck 
the  half  hour  after  nine.  He  started, 
replaced  the  copy  of  his  letter  to  Celia, 
took  from  another  pigeon-hole  a  package 
of  papers,  the  separate  titles  of  which  he 
carefully  examined  before  placing  them 
in  his  pocket;  closed  and  locked  the 
many-celled  depository  of  his  secrets; 
and,  after  adjusting  his  dress  in  an  ad 
joining  room,  issued  into  the  street. 


BEYOND    THE   BREAKERS. 


123 


CHAPTER  XXI. 
THE   DISCLOSURE. 

WHEN  Cranstoun  was  ushered  into 
the  parlor,  he  found  Celia  sitting  at  the 
centre-table,  an  open  letter  before  her — 
the  letter  he  had  sent  her  the  day  before, 
as  his  quick  eye  instantly  detected. 

She  rose,  indicating  a  chair.  Crans 
toun  had  made  the  ordinary  inquiries 
after  her  health,  and  then,  somewhat 
unexpectedly  to  him,  she  took  the 
initiative. 

"  You  have  written  to  me,"  she  said, 
taking  up  the  letter,  "  that  you  have  some 
important  matter  connected  with  my 
mother's  history  which  you  wish  to  com 
municate.  Have  the  goodness  to  inform 
me  what  it  is." 

There  was  a  subtle  something  in  the 
tone  and  the  grave  manner,  rather  than 
in  the  words,  which  fell  unpleasantly  on 
Cranstoun's  ear.  This  young  lady  had 
hitherto  seemed  somewhat  embarrassed 
in  his  presence,  especially  when  he  met 
her  alone.  She  had  avoided  his  look, 
and  evinced  trepidation  sometimes  when 
he  spoke  to  her.  Now,  though  she 
trembled  a  little,  she  looked  him  steadily 
in  the  eye,  and  awaited  his  reply  in  a 
quiet  way  for  which  he  had  not  been 
prepared.  He  felt  that  his  power  over 
her  was  lessened — Sydenham's  influence 
probably.  No  matter.  He,  Cranstoun, 
was  master  of  the  situation  now.  All 
this  glanced  through  his  mind  during  the 
second  or  two  which  elapsed  ere  he 
replied : 

"  It  is  of  the  utmost  importance,  Miss 
Pembroke  ;  and  I  deeply  regret  to  say 
it  is  of  an  unpleasant  character :  I  most 
deeply  regret  the  pain  I  shall  have  to 
give  you.  Let  me  hope  that  you  will 
disassociate,  in  your  feelings,  the  evil 
tidings  and  unwilling  bearer  of  them." 

Her  sudden  pallor  and  look  of  alarm 
reassured  Cranstoun,  and  he  went  on 
with  more  confidence  : 

"  The  property  which  you  have  always 
considered  yours  does  not  legally  belong 
to  you." 

"Am  I  not  papa's  heir?  Is  that 
what  you  mean  ?" 

"  You  were  so  young  at  the  time  of 


your  father's  death,  Miss  Celia,  that  you 
may  not  have  noticed  in  his  manner  in 
dications  of  a  secret  burden." 

"  I  remember,"  Celia  forced  herself 
to  say,  "that  papa  was  often  sad  and 
thoughtful." 

"  He  had  good  reason  to  be  so.  At 
the  time  he  married  your  mother,  and 
for  many  years  afterward,  he  had  a  wife 
living  in  England.  You  will  require 
proof  of  this.  It  is  contained  in  your 
father's  own  letters." 

He  took  a  small  package  from  an  in 
ner  pocket,  untied  the  red  tape  -which 
bound  it,  and  handed  her  the  contents. 

Poor  Celia  !  The  stern  realities  of 
life  were  upon  her  now.  The  actual 
shadow  had  fallen  across  her  path  at 
last.  Mechanically  she  took  from  Cran 
stoun  the  offered  letters,  opened  one  of 
them,  gazed  on  its  contents.  Her  fa 
ther's  hand  was  remarkably  fair  and 
legible,  but  the  characters  gave  back, 
for  a  time,  no  idea  —  no  more  than  to 
an  unlettered  Indian  they  would.  Her 
mind,  after  the  first  stunning  blow,  wan 
dered  far  away,  back  to  her  years  of 
childhood — to  her  earliest  memories  of 
her  father — of  her  injured  mother. 

"  Did  she  know  it  ?"  were  her  first 
eager  words. 

"  Your  mother  ?  No.  She  died  be 
lieving  herself  your  father's  legal  wife." 

"Thank  God!  oh  thank  God  for 
that !"  and  the  fast-flowing  tears,  for  the 
first  time,  would  come. 

Cranstoun  looked  on,  in  curious  aston 
ishment.  He  had  just  been  communi 
cating  to  an  orphan  girl,  who  till  now 
had  borne  a  reputable  name  and  enjoyed 
a  handsome  fortune,  the  fact  that  she 
was  entitled  to  neither.  He  had  thought 
to  overwhelm  her  with  the  idea  of  de 
pendence,  of  poverty,  of  the  world's  con 
tempt.  And  her  first  expression  was 
one  of  gratitude — almost  of  joyful  grat 
itude,  it  seemed — that  another  had  been 
spared  the  misery  which  seemed  closing 
around  her ! 

«  No  matter,"  was  his  next  thought : 
"this  can't  last  long."  And  in  the  ex 
pressive  countenance  before  him,  mark 
ing  every  change  within,  he  already  read 
that  she  was  gathering  up  the  severed 


124 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


links  of  thought,  arranging  and  com 
bining,  out  of  sudden  confusion,  'what 
were  at  first  only  vague  shadows — be 
ginning,  in  short,  to  realize  her  actual 
position. 

«  Miss  Pembroke — "  he  began. 

«  Pembroke  is  not  my  name.  It  was 
not  my  mother's — poor  mother  ! — but 
she  thought  it  was  !  She  always  thought 
it  was."  And  then  the  tears,  in  spite 
of  her  best  efforts,  would  force  their  way 
afresh. 

«  Miss  Celia— " 

«  Yes,  that  is  mine  still.  They  can't 
take  it  from  me.  Mamma  gave  it  me." 

"A  name  is  of  little  consequence. 
The  chief  point  is,  that  the  property 
which  you  have  always  supposed  you  in 
herited  belongs  to  another.  You  are 
not —  He  hesitated. 

Celia  turned  very  pale,  but  she  said, 
in  a  low  tone,  "  I  know — I  understand — 
I  am  not  a  legitimate  child.  I  have  no 
right  to  my  father's  property." 

"  No,  only  to  your  mother's.  Your 
father's  estate  goes,  by  law,  to  the  near 
est  legitimate  heir." 

He  had  awakened  a  new  train  of 
thought :  «  Is  she— I  mean,  is  my  fa 
ther's  wife  alive  ?" 

"  No,  she  died  nearly  three  years  be 
fore  your  father." 

"  And  he  had  an  opportunity  to  rem 
edy  the  evil  he  had  done,  and  did  not  do 
it !  I  don't  believe  it.  I  am  sure — oh 
sure  ! — that  he  loved  my  mother.  You 
are  not  telling  me  the  truth." 

"  I  am,  indeed  I  am.  You  need  not 
trust  to  my  word  for  it.  One  of  these 
letters  will  prove  what  I  say.  But  your 
father  had  every  disposition  to  legalize 
his  marriage  with  your  mother." 

«  Every  disposition,  and  not  do  it  ?" 

"Yes.  He  was  extremely  sensitive 
to  the  opinion  of  the  world,  and  he  feared 
that  a  second  marriage  with  your  mother, 
no  matter  how  secretly  solemnized,  might 
become  generally  known.  Still  more,  he 
feared  to  disclose  the  truth  to  her.  The 
very  strength  of  his  affection  for  her 
held  him  back  from  confessing  that  he 
had  deceived  her.  and  that  she  had  been 
living  with  him  for  years  as — 

Cranstoun  stopped  involuntarily.   Was 


this  Celia  ?  How  the  world's  lesson 
was  telling  upon  her  !  Every  trace  of 
tears  was  gone.  The  glance  was  steady, 
almost  stern,  and  her  tone  was  cold  and 
firm  as  she  broke  in  upon  his  unclosed 
sentence  : 

"  You  have  no  right,  sir — he  had  no 
right — to  couple  my  mothers  name,  even 
in  thought,  with  any  term  except  such  as 
may  be  applied  to  the  best  and  the  most 
virtuous.  She  deserved — and  well  you 
know  she  commanded,  even  to  the  last 
moment  —  my  father's  unbounded  con 
fidence  and  respect." 

"  It  was  that  very  respect,  Miss  Pem 
broke,  which  caused  him  to  delay,  day 
after  day,  what  he  earnestly  longed,  but 
had  not  courage,  to  do.  Had  he  not,  he 
would,  at  least,  have  made  a  will." 

"  Could  he  have  left  his  property,  by 
will,  to  mamma  ?" 

"  To  her,  or  to  you  or  to  any  one. 
His  wife  being  dead,  the  dower  in  the 
real  estate  was  extinguished.  He  had 
the  entire  control,  free  from  incumbrance, 
of  all  his  property." 

"•And  even  that  he  failed  to  do  !  But 
perhaps — "  How  new  ideas  were  crowd 
ing  on  Celia  as  the  several  phases  of  her 
position,  one  after  another,  presented 
themselves  ! — this  time,  however,  the  new 
emotion  had  joy  mingled  with  its  sorrow. 
"Perhaps  he  meant —  She  stopped 
again,  and  with  flushed  cheek  and  lighted 
eye  she  asked  Cranstoun,  abruptly, 
"Have  I  a  sister?" 

"Your  father  had,  by  his  wife,  one 
child,  a  daughter.  But  1  know  he  never 
intended  she  should  have  any  of  his 
property  in  this  country.  When  he  left 
her  mother,  they  separated  by  mutual 
consent,  and  he  made  over  to  her  half 
his  property,  real  and  personal.  At  her 
death  it  would  go  to  her  child." 

"A  sister — a  sister!"  Celia  repeated. 
But  the  light  gradually  faded  from  her 
eye,  and  she  added:  "  Perhaps  she  would 
despise  me.  She  might  feel  as  if  I  had 
wronged  her,  and  hate  me.  Am  I  her 
sister,  or  does  the  law  say  I  am  not?" 

"You  are  undoubtedly  her  sister  of 
the  half  blood,  but  I  am  not  sure  she  is 
alive." 

"  Has  she  been  ill  ?" 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


125 


"  Not  that  I  know  of.  I  am  sorry  that 
I  have  to  tell  you  a  melancholy  story, 
that  leaves  everything  in  uncertainty. 
At  her  mother's  death,  as  your  father 
had  not  been  heard  of  for  years,  and  had 
caused  a  report  of  his  death  to  be  circu 
lated,  she  was  received  into  the  family 
of  her  nearest  relative,  a  Mr. — a  Mr. 
Dunmore,  her  father's  first  cousin,  a  gay 
man  of  the  world,  addicted  to  horse- 
racing,  and  who  was  afterward  appointed 
her  guardian.  There  she  remained  sev 
eral  years.  Among  the  fashionable  fre 
quenters  of  this  gentleman's  house,  a 
captain  of  the  Guards  paid  especial  at 
tention  to  Miss  Mary — " 

"And  she  married  this  captain  ?" 

"  She  eloped  with  him,  under  promise 
of  marriage,  it  seems,  but  has  not  been 
seen  or  heard  of  by  her  mother's  rela 
tions  since." 

Celia  sighed  deeply.  She  felt  as  if 
the  only  gleam  of  sunshine  in  a  stormy 
sky  had  been  suddenly  shut  out.  She 
would  have  given  up  all  her  property 
willingly,  she  thought — joyfully — if  there 
by  she  could  but  have  won  a  sister,  a 
sister's  love ! 

"  But  some  explanation  must  have  been 
given,"  she  said  at  last.  "  This  captain — " 

"  He  prevaricated — told  first  one  story, 
then  another.  There  was  a  duel,  I  be 
lieve.  Finally,  he  protested,  in  the  most 
solemn  terms,  that  he  knew  not  where 
she  was  ;  that  she  had  disappeared  in 
the  most  unaccountable  manner ;  and 
that  he  had  made  every  effort  to  trace 
her,  but  in  vain.  The  cousin  believed, 
or  affected  to  believe,  the  story.  Indeed 
there  seems  pretty  strong  ground  for  the 
conclusion  that  she  came  to  an  unfor 
tunate  end." 

"  Poor,  poor  sister !"  And  though 
Celia's  chaste  ignorance  failed  to  suggest 
to  her  the  horrors  of  which  such  a  narra 
tive  opened  up  the  possibility — for  a  great 
city  has  darker  depths  than  those  of  the 
swollen  river,  last  refuge  of  the  suicide 
— still,  she  could  not  but  feel  that  her 
own  fate  was  mild  and  endurable  com 
pared  to  what  had  possibly  been  the 
portion  of  one  who  was  born  to  name 
and  to  fortune. 

Craustoun  was  obliged  to  recall  her 


thoughts  to  her  own  situation.  "  Miss 
Mary,  if  she  be  alive,"  he  said,  « is  un 
doubtedly  heir  to  all  the  property  which 
you  imagined  that  you  had  inherited 
from  your  father,  she  being  his  only 
legitimate  child.  If  she  is  dead,  Mr. 
Dunmore  is  heir-at-law.  But  ten  years 
have  elapsed  since  your  father's  death. 
He  had  evidently  not  been  traced  by 
his  English  relations.  They  know  noth 
ing,  in  all  probability,  of  your  existence, 
nor  have  any  clue  to  the  property  that  is 
in  your  guardian's  hands.  As  you  have 
enjoyed  it  unmolested  until  now,  I  do 
not  see  why  you  may  not  continue  to  do 
so  as  long  as  you  live,  if— if  you  will 
only  act  prudently  at  this  juncture." 

« What  has  prudence  to  do  with  it  ? 
I  know,  now,  that  the  property  is  not 
mine — you  have  taken  pains  to  tell  me 
that — and  you  know  it  also." 

"  Very  true.  I  know  it ;  and  if  I 
were  to  sit  down  and  write  to  your 
father's  cousin,  whose  address  I  have, 
he.  as  heir-at-law,  would  sue  and  un 
doubtedly  recover.  But  I  have  known  the 
same  thing  for  twenty  years,  and  have 
never  written  to  him  a  word  about  it." 

Celia  was  silent  for  some  time,  and 
Cranstoun  sat  anxiously  watching  the 
effect  of  the  hint  he  had  given.  At  last 
she  said  : 

"  Mr.  Cranstoun,  you  must  have  had 
some  motive  for  concealing  all  this  so 
long  and  for  disclosing  it  to  me  now. 
What  was  it  ?" 

Most  persons  would  have  been  taken 
aback  by  so  downright  a  question,  and 
might  have  replied,  in  the  commonplace 
style,  that  if  the  young  lady  would  but 
consent  to  marriage,  she  would  save  for 
tune  and  name  ;  otherwise,  she  would 
surely  forfeit  both.  But  Cranstoun, 
though  a  man  incapable  of  appreciating 
nobility  of  motive,  had  been  partially  en 
lightened  as  to  Celia's  character  by  the 
preceding  conversation,  and  was  too 
shrewd  not  to  perceive  that  such  a  move 
would  be  false  and  unprofitable.  In  a 
quiet  tone  he  replied  : 

"As  a  member,  however  unworthy,  of 
the  legal  profession,  it  was,  in  one  sense, 
my  duty  to  have  made  these  disclosures 
long  ago  to  those  concerned,  so  that 


126 


BETOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


the  persons  to  whom  the  property  law 
fully  belongs  might  obtain  possession  of 
it.  Cannot  Miss  Pembroke  imagine 
why  I  have  not  done  so  ?" 

"•  I  prefer  to  learn  the  reason  from 
you,  sir." 

"It  is  very  simple.  I  have  ever  been 
unwilling — at  this  moment  I  am  more 
than  ever  unwilling — to  take  any  step 
that  should  give  you  pain  and  do  you  an 
injury." 

"  But  this  does  not  explain  why  you 
have  broken  silence  to  me  at  last." 

«  If  I  could  have  believed  that  I  stand 
as  high  in  your  esteem  as  I  most  earn 
estly  wish  and  hope  to  stand,  you  should 
never  have  known  a  syllable  of  all  I  have 
told  you  to-day.  As  it  is,  can  you  blame 
me  for  seeking  to  inspire  you  with  some 
sentiments  of— of  gratitude,  of  good-will, 
through  the  knowledge  that,  by  my  for 
bearance,  you  have  lived  in  ease  and 
affluence,  your  name  has  been  saved 
from  dishonor  and  your  father's  memory 
from  reproach.  Miss  Celia,  I  desire, 
above  all  things  in  this  world,  your  good 
opinion." 

How  smooth  the  villainy  !  How  fair 
the  words  in  which  it  was  clothed  ! 

Celia  felt  her  way  through  it,  as  the 
blind  sometimes  safely  thread  field  and 
forest,  by  an  inscrutable  instinct. 

"  Allow  me  to  ask  another  question," 
she  said,  after  a  pause.  "  Supposing 
the  forbearance  of  which  you  have  spoken 
to  continue  in  the  future  as  in  the  past, 
do  you  expect  me  to  live,  as  heretofore, 
but  with  the  consciousness  ever  present 
that  not  a  dollar  I  spend,  nor  an  article 
I  possess,  is,  of  right,  my  own  ?" 

"  Most  assuredly  I  do,  Miss  Pem 
broke.  It  was  your  father's  intention 
to  make  your  mother  and  yourself  his 
heirs.  I  have  personal  knowledge  of 
that.  I  am  willing  to  make  oath  to  it." 

"  No  oath  can  make  that  mine  which 
belongs  to  another." 

"  I  beseech  you,  Miss  Celia,  to  make 
no  rash  move,  as  you  seem  to  purpose. 
It  would  be  the  very  extravagance  of 
Quixotic  humiliation." 

"  You  do  expect,  then — or  did  expect, 
at  least — that,  if  no  one  disclosed  to  the 
heir-at-law — to  Mr. — " 


"  Mr.  Dunmore." 

" — That  if  no  one  disclosed  the 
truth  to  Mr.  Dunmore,  I  would  leave 
him  in  ignorance,  and  go  on  using  his 
property  as  if  it  were  mine.  You  are 
mistaken." 

A  man  of  the  world  might,  on  mature 
reflection  —  after  taking  into  view  the 
miserable  anxiety  which  attends  the 
holding  of  property  by  uncertain  tenure, 
the  chances  of  black-mail  and  like  con 
tingencies — have  come  to  the  same  con 
clusion  as  Celia.  She,  at  the  moment, 
had  no  such  thoughts.  Her  womanly 
instinct,  cutting  across  them  all,  went 
direct  to  the  precept,  "  Render  to  every 
man  his  due."  Be  such  instincts  ever 
kept  unspotted  from  the  world  ! 

Cranstoun's  version  of  it  was,  that, 
instead  of  being  actuated  by  common- 
sense  considerations  of  practical  conse 
quences — as  of  the  risks  she  ran,  the 
imprudence  of  placing  herself  at  others' 
mercy,  to  all  which  it  might  have  been 
hard  to  reply — the  girl  was  moved  by  a 
mere  romantic  fancy,  a  figment  set  up 
under  the  name  of  honor,  which  he 
might  succeed  in  combating. 

"  This  is  madness,"  he  said,  earnestly 
— "sheer  madness,  Miss  Pembroke.  It 
may  be  law,  but  it  is  not  justice,  that  a 
far-off  relative  of  your  father — a  gambler 
and  spendthrift  whom  he  despised — 
should  inherit  his  property  to  the  exclu 
sion  of  his  own  daughter.  The  spirit 
of  the  law  is,  that  the  intentions  of  a  dy 
ing  man,  if  they  can  be  ascertained,  should 
determine  the  disposition  of  his  property. 
You  propose,  as  to  your  father's  proper 
ty,  by  your  own  act  to  bring  about  a 
disposition  of  it  which  you  are  quite  sure 
he  never  wished,  never  intended,  and 
which,  if  he  were  now  alive,  would  be 
abhorrent  to  his  feelings.  Most  deeply 
do  I  regret  that  I  said  a  word  to  you  on 
the  subject.  But  how  could  I  for  a  mo 
ment  imagine  that  it  would  bring  about 
such  a  result  ?" 

"  Is  common  honesty  so  rare  a  thing?" 
was  Celia's  thought,  but  she  did  not  ask 
Cranstoun  that  question.  She  said  to 
him  :  "  You  desire  to  take  back  with 
you  my  father's  letters  ?" 

He  bowed  in  assent. 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


127 


"  Then  allow  me  a  few  minutes  to 
look  over  them." 

They  confirmed  everything  that  Cran- 
stoun  had  said.  A  portion  of  one  of 
them,  in  which  the  main  facts  were  the 
most  distinctly  stated,  she  read  with 
amazement.  Her  father  therein  accept 
ed  an  offer  which,  it  appeared,  Cran- 
stoun  had  made  to  him,  to  maintain 
silence  on  the  subject  of  the  previous 
marriage  s*o  long  as  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pem 
broke  should  live,  on  payment  of  ten 
thousand  dollars  hush-money.  She  was 
so  startled  when  she  came  to  this  pas 
sage  that  she  interrupted  her  reading  to 
ask,  «  Did  you  intend  me  to  see  all  these 
letters  ?" 

"  Certainly,"  he  replied. 

He  had  asked  her  in  marriage,  he  had 
just  expressed  eager  desire  for  her  good 
opinion,  and  yet  he  was  willing  she 
should  see  this  memorial  of  his  shame  ! 
Even  in  the  midst  of  her  own  bitter 
griefs  she  could  not  help  saying  to  her 
self,  "What  manner  of  man  is  this  ?" 

As  she  handed  him  back  the  letters, 
she  said  :  "  Some  time  since  you  did  me 
the  honor  to  make  to  me,  through  my 
guardian,  a  proposition  which  I  declined. 
I  think  you  must  be  glad  now  that  I  de 
clined  it.  We  have  neither  thought  nor 
principle  in  common.  You  think  me, 
no  doubt,  a  young  woman  lacking  com 
mon  sense  ;  and  I  think  you"  —  she 
paused,  and  then  added — "  the  last  per 
son  who  would  wish  to  connect  himself 
in  marriage  with  one  who  will  hence 
forth  bear  a  stain  on  her  name  and  have 
to  work  for  her  living.  I  feel  confident 
I  may  now  assure  my  guardian  that  your 
proposal  will  not  be  renewed." 

He  rose,  as  much  exasperated  by  her 
coolness  as  it  was  in  the  nature  of  his 
impassive  character  to  be.  He  had 
made  his  great  move  and  been  check 
mated  by  a  simple  girl. 

"  You  will  do  me  a  favor,"  Celia  added, 
"if  you  will  send  me  Mr.  Dunmore's 
address." 

He  bowed,  and  left  her  without  an 
other  word. 

Two  hours  afterward  Celia  received 
the  following  note : 


"  Mr.  Cranstoun  trusts  that  Miss 
Pembroke  will  excuse  him  for  delaying 
to  comply  with  her  request  for  the  ad 
dress  of  the  gentleman  to  whom  the  re 
quest  referred. 

"  Mr.  Cranstoun  will  not  write  to 
England  for  a  week  to  come.  If  in. 
that  time  he  receives  no  letter  or  mes 
sage  from  Miss  Pembroke,  he  will  con 
clude  that  the  resolution  she  has  ex 
pressed  to-day  is  irrevocable,  and  will 
act  upon  that  resolution. 

"  Mr.  Cranstoun  reminds  Miss  Pem 
broke  that  a  knowledge  of  the  facts  he 
communicated  to  her  this  morning  is  as 
much  a  piece  of  property  as  any  other. 
He  placed  it  at  Miss  P.'s  disposal  with 
out  condition  attached ;  and  Miss  P.  did 
not  see  fit  to  avail  herself  of  it. 

"  At  the  end  of  a  week  from  this  day 
(under  the  contingency  above  referred 
to),  Mr.  C.  will  proceed  to  dispose  of  it 
elsewhere.  Whether  the  information  be 
given  in  the  proper  quarter  by  Miss  Pem 
broke  herself  or  by  Mr.  Cranstoun,  the 
result  to  Miss  P.  will  be  the  same,  but 
the  result  to  others  will  be  very  different. 
In  the  latter  case  (i.  e.,  if  given  by  Mr. 
C.),  a  reckless  spendthrift  will  probably 
secure  for  himself  half  the  amount  in 
volved,  while  the  other  half  may  become 
the  rightful  property  of  a  man  who  will 
not  spend  it  in  dissipation  and  horse- 
racing. 

"  CHISKAUGA,  April  9,  1856." 


CHAPTER  XXII. 
THE   FIRST   DARK   DAY. 

"  If  there  be  an  evil  in  this  world,  'tis  sorrow  and 
heaviness  of  heart.  The  loss  of  fame,  of  wealth,  of 
coronets  and  mitres,  are  only  evils  as  they  occasion 
sorrow.  Take  that  out,  the  rest  is  fancy,  and  dwelleth 
only  in  the  head  of  man." — STERNE. 

THE  shield  of  our  fate  has  ever  two 
sides,  but,  like  King  Alfred's  headlong 
knights  meeting  at  the  cross-roads,  we 
too  often  look  but  on  one  of  them. 

There  is  no  stroke  of  earthly  happi 
ness  so  unquestionable  that  it  entails  not 
mischiefs  unforeseen,  and  no  human  mis 
fortune  so  heavy  that  it  brings  not  its 
attendant  mitigations.  Barring  the  worm 


128 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


that  dieth  not,  our  short  sight  scarcely 
suffices  to  distinguish  what  is  calamity. 
Evil  changes  to  good,  good  to  evil,  even 
before  our  eyes.  But  this  is  a  lesson 
taught  only  by  experience.  It  is  espe 
cially  in  the  days  of  impulsive  youth,  fresh 
to  enjoy,  quick  also  to  suffer,  that  we  fail 
to  discern  the  reverse  of  the  shield. 
When  the  sun  shines  out,  we  rejoice. as 
if  it  would  never  be  obscured  ;  and  when 
the  clouds  arise  and  cover  it,  we  droop 
as  iMts  light  were  gone  for  ever. 

If  there  be,  aside  from  the  stings  of 
conscience,  one  unmitigated  evil,  it  is 
that  which  a  common  phrase  aptly  ex 
presses  :  we  "lose  heart" — a  loss,  as 
Sterne  has  well  reminded  us,  worse  than 
of  wealth,  of  station,  of  all  this  world 
affords.  For  the  world's  goods  and  the 
world's  high  places  may  be  lost  and  won 
again  if,  in  the  storm  which  swept  these 
away,  we  did  not  lose  heart  along  with 
them. 

We  speak  of  the  night  of  adversity, 
but  the  darkness  is  often  within  us, 
rather  than  without ;  and  if  we  but  pre 
serve  the  spirit  to  retrieve,  the  courage 
to  undertake,  the  perseverance  to  prose 
cute,  Ajax's  noble  prayer  will  be  an 
swered  in  our  case.  The  struggle  we 
may  not  escape — to  contend  is  man's 
destiny — but  we  shall  have  light  to  strug 
gle  by. 

It  was  dark  enough  now  around  Celia, 
poor  child  !  And  when  Cranstoun  was 
gone,  and  she  was  left  alone  with  her 
thoughts,  she  remained  in  the  gloom,  for 
a  time,  with  but  a  dim  sense  of  some 
vague  and  terrible  misfortune — of  dis 
grace,  of  desolation. 

Gradually,  as  she  recovered  the  power 
to  recall  and  arrange  the  thoughts  that 
had  wandered  off,  like  worldlings  desert 
ing  the  unfortunate,  the  realities  of  her 
situation  rose  up,  one  by  one,  in  array 
before  her. 

Not  at  first  the  ruin  of  her  fortune, 
for  the  young  and  the  generous,  bred  in 
easy  affluence,  and  to  whom  life's  com 
forts  have  come  as  comes  the  air  to  re 
fresh  and  the  sunlight  to  cheer  us,  do 
not  feel,  at  the  time,  even  at  its  true 
cost,  the  loss  of  money,  though  it  be  all 
they  possess. 


But  it  was  the  position  in  which  her 
mother  had  stood — she  so  good,  so  lov 
ing:  it  was,  even  more,  the  conduct  of 
her  father — so  fondly  remembered,  and 
who  had  always  treated  herself  and  her 
mother  with  indulgent  affection. 

Could  it  be  ?  That  father  to  whom 
she  had  ever  looked  up  so  dutifully, 
whom  all  men  had  seemed  so  highly  to 
respect — had  his  life  with  her  mother 
and  herself  been  but  one  fong,  acted 
falsehood  ?  Was  this  the  world  in  which 
she  had  to  live  ?  Who  was  true  ?  Whom 
was  she  to  trust?  Could  any  one  have 
seemed  more  worthy  of  trust  than  her 
father? 

It  is  youth's  sorest  trial  when  on  its 
warm,  trusting  faith  comes  the  first  icy 
breath  of  suspicion.  W7ell  may  the 
wounded  spirit  pray  to  be  saved  from 
the  infidelity  of  the  heart,  from  skepticism 
in  human  virtue,  from  unbelief  in  Truth 
and  Righteousness  upon  earth  ! 

Who  was  to  be  trusted  ?  Was  he  to 
whom  she  proposed  to  commit  the  hap 
piness  of  her  life  ?  What  would  Mow- 
bray  say?  What  would  Mowbray  do? 

It  was  with  a  start  almost  of  terror  that 
Celia  met  the  question  as  it  arose  in  her 
mind.  Could  it  be  that  she  was  not  sure 
how  her  lover  would  feel — how  he  would 
act?  Was  she,  indeed,  losing  faith  in 
humankind  ? 

Not  quite  that.  But  now,  for  the  first 
time,  she  became  conscious  of  an  in 
stinctive  impression  that  both  Mowbray 
and  his  mother  prized  station,  set  store 
by  wealth. 

And  what  was  she  ?  What  had  her 
mother  been?  Not  her  father's  wife. 
The  terms  which  a  world,  heartless  and 
undiscriminating,  applies  alike  to  the 
vicious  and  the  unfortunate — terms  that 
grate  so  cruelly  on  the  ears  of  the  pure 
and  the  young — thrust  themselves  upon 
her.  She  seemed  to  hear  them  spoken, 
and  she  shrank,  as  from  the  public  gaze, 
under  a  feeling  of  degradation. 

Her  mind  dwelt  on  this  until  the 
thought  stung  like  a  venomous  reptile.* 
She  rose  and  moved  about,  as  if  thus  she 
might  shake  it  off.  She  closed  her  eyes, 
as  though  to  shut  it  out.  But  it  seemed 
only  to  stamp  itself  the  more  vividly  on 


BEYOND  THE  BREAKERS. 


129 


her  imagination.  Then  she  began  to 
reflect  that  it  would  never  leave  her  as 
long  as  she  lived — that  she  would  bear 
it  with  her  day  by  day.  year  by  year— at 
night  when  she  lay  down,  at  morning 
when  she  arose.  The  thought  became 
intolerable. 

Ah  !  if  she  could  only  go  back  twenty- 
four  hours  ! — could  only  feel  as  she  had 
felt  yesterday,  the  day  before,  throughout 
her  life  up  to  this  very  hour!  What 
would  she  not  give  to  be  again  as  she 
was  then  ! — to  awake  and  find  that  all 
she  had  just  been  suffering  was  but  in  a 
frightful  dream  ! 

It  is  often  as  true  of  happiness  as  of 
time,  that  we  take  note  of  it  only  by  its 
loss.  Celia  suddenly  bethought  herself 
("it  seemed  to  her  hardly  credible  now) 
how  miserable  she  had  sometimes  fancied 
herself! — for  what  slight  cause  she  had 
bewailed  her  hard  fate  to  her  aunt,  to 
Sydenham ! 

Sydenham !  A  new  train  of  ideas 
arose  with  the  name,  the  first  faint 
glimpse  of  light  through  the  storm. 

The  words  he  had  once  spoken  to  her 
— the  very  words — came  back  to  her 
now,  in  her  sore  affliction,  as  with  a  new 
sense.  She  remembered  the  flashing 
eye,  she  seemed  to  hear  again  the  indig 
nant  tones  in  which  he  had  said,  «  No 
man  whose  good  opinion  is  worth  caring 
for  will  visit  on  the  daughter  the  father's 
sins.  If  any  man  ever  does,  take  my 
word  for  it  you  are  well  rid  of  him." 

She  felt  that  she  could  yet  count  upon 
one  sure  friend.  If  the  rest  of  the  world 
forsook  her  as  the  child  of  shame,  he,  at 
least,  would  pronounce  her  innocent — 
her  and  the  unmarried  mother,  well  de 
serving  the  love  and  reverence  she  in 
spired,  who  had  lived  and  died  uncon 
scious  of  her  fate,  unconscious  of  the 
stigma  that  was  one  day  to  attach,  through 
her,  to  her  daughter. 

But  even  this  gleam  of  comfort  was 
obscured  a  moment  after.  It  flashed 
upon  her,  as  she  recalled  Sydenham's 
words,  that  at  the  moment  she  first 
heard  them  she  had  experienced  a  vague 
apprehension,  dispelled  afterward  by 
Sydenham's  disclaimer,  that  they  might 
apply  to  Mowbray. 
9 


How  was  this  ?  She  trusted  Sydera 
ham,  a  mere  friend  ;  her  faith  in  him 
was  even  stronger  now,  in  the  hour  of 
trial,  than  before  ;  but  the  man  she  had 
loved  and  had  chosen  from  all  the  world 
as  her  future  husband — twice,  while  these 
gloomy  thoughts  had  been  sweeping  over 
her,  there  had  mingled  with  them  almost 
a  doubt  of  his  loyalty.  What  had  Mow- 
bray  ever  done  to  deserve  this  at  her 
hands  ? 

And  then  again  she  thought,  if  her 
present  position  did  change  his  views, 
ought  she  to  blame  him?  It  was  not 
that  she  was  poor  now:  he  was  not 
much  richer  himself.  It  was  not  as  if 
she  had  discovered  that  she  was  born  of 
parents  in  the  humblest  condition  of  life : 
she  did  not,  she  believed,  think  so  meanly 
of  him  as  to  imagine  he  would  despise 
her  because  of  a  lowly  origin,  so  that 
her  birth  was  only  honest;  but  now,  dis 
graced  as  well  as  disinherited,  could  it 
reasonably  be  expected — 

She  was  going  on  with  this  reasoning 
when  there  suddenly  crossed  her  train 
What  if  the  case 
What  if  Mrs. 
Mowbray  had  been  the  deceived  one, 
and  the  stain  had  been  cast  on  Evelyn's 
birth  ? 

Oh  how  warmly  the  conviction  gushed 
to  her  heart  that  she  would  have  met 
him  with  open  arms — with  a  love  far 
stronger,  in  his  day  of  sorrow,  than  when 
all  went  well ;  that  she  would  have  re 
joiced  unspeakably  to  be  able  to  soothe 
when  the  world  frowned  ;  to  prepare  u 
home,  sheltered  by  changeless  affection 
from  the  blasts  without — a  home  where, 
if  her  constant  devotion  could  make  it 
bright  to  him,  there  should  ever  be 
genial  warmth  and  pleasant  sunshine  ! 
But  it  was  not — and  she  sighed — it  was 
not,  she  supposed,  with  men  as  with 
women  ! 

She  forgot,  when  she  made  this  ex 
cuse  for  her  lover  at  expense  of  his  sex, 
that  she  had  not,  even  for  a  moment, 
lost  confidence  in  Sydenham.  But  it  is 
little  to  be  wondered  at  if  the  poor  girl's 
ideas,  all  startled  into  disorder  by  the 
news  that  had  burst  upon  her  like  a 
clap  of  thunder  from  a  summer  sky, 


of  thought   the  idea- 
had    been    reversed  ? 


133 


BEYOND  THE  BREAKERS. 


strayed  hither  and  thither,  without  much 
order  or  consistency. 

A  carnage  at  the  door  !  It  was  her 
aunt  and  uncle  returning.  She  retired 
hastily  to  her  room,  there  to  reflect 
whether  she  should  communicate  to 
them  what  had  passed.  Her  first  impulse 
was  to  speak  of  it  openly.  Then  she 
reflected  that  without  fortune  she  be 
came,  as  it  were,  a  pensioner  on  their 
bounty,  until  she  could  arrange  some 
self-supporting  mode  of  life.  Her  aunt, 
s'le  was  quite  sure — shocked  and  pained 
as  she  must  be — would  never  regard,  in 
that  light,  her  sister's  child  ;  but  how  her 
uncle  would  look  upon  it  she  did  not 
quite  know.  So  she  concluded  that  she 
would  think  over  her  plans  for  the  future 
before  saying  anything.  This,  at  least, 
was  the  reason  she  gave  to  herself. 
There  was  another,  unacknowledged, 
that  probably  had  greater  weight  —  the 
natural  reluctance  to  make  the  first  trial 
as  to  the  effect  which  her  disclosures 
would  produce  on  those  around  her. 

She  made  a  strong  and  not  unsuccess 
ful  attempt  to  master  her  agitation.  And 
when,  after  half  an  hour,  she  descended 
to  the  parlor,  no  suspicion  was  excited. 
It  is  true  that  she  went  through  the 
petty  duties  of  the  day  with  a  sort  of 
mechanical  unconsciousness,  and  that 
her  aunt  once  rallied  her,  in  a  tone  of 
pleasantry,  about  her  evidently  absent 
thoughts.  But  the  day  passed,  as  the 
weariest  days  will ;  and  she  retired 
early  to  her  chamber  to  sink  into  a  long 
reverie,  crowded  with  the  thoughts  she 
had  so  resolutely  shut  out  while  the  eyes 
of  others  were  upon  her. 

When  she  sought  rest,  her  mother's 
image  rose  before  her  so  distinctly,  so 
vividly,  it  seemed  but  yesterday  she  had 
received  her  parting  kiss.  If  she  could 
but  have  laid  her  head  once  more  on 
that  faithful  breast,  and  poured  forth  all 
she  felt,  and  told  how  her  love  for  that 
dear  parent,  that  had  grown  with  her 
growth,  seemed  increased  and  renewed 
within  her,  now  that  they  were  com 
panions  in  misfortune  !  (It  was  thus 
Celia  put  it :  her  mother  was  alive  to 
her  still.)  And  oh,  if  she  could  but 
have  heard,  in  reply,  a  mother's  answer 


ing  words  of  sympathy ! — those  words  of 
the  dear  old  time — what  was  ever  like  to 
them  in  after  years  ? — that  fell  on  the 
young  heart  like  fresh  spring  flowers  on 
the  surface  of  a  brook  bright  with  glad 
sunshine.  The  earnest  longing  so  grew 
upon  her  that  she  stretched  forth  her 
arms  as  if  to  embrace  a  tangible  form. 
And  then,  as  a  sense  of  lonely  grief  came 
back,  she  wept  long  and  silently.  But 
at  length  youth  and  health  triumphed 
over  sorrow,  and  she  dropped  into  a 
heavy  sleep  ;  not,  indeed,  unbroken  by 
wildering  dreams,  but  which  lasted  till 
the  slanting  rays  of  the  sun,  just  risen, 
came  cheerfully  through  an  eastern  win 
dow  athwart  her  bed-chamber. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 
TAKING   HEART. 

"  Quale  i  fioretti,  dal  notturno  gelo 

Chinati  e  chiusi,  poi  ch'il  Sol  gl'  imbianca, 
Si  driz.zan  tutti  aperti  in  loro  stelo  ; 
Tal  mi  fee  'io  di  mia  virtute  stanca."* 

DANTE,  Inferno,  Canto  II. 

WHEN  any  powerful  emotion,  whether 
of  joy  or  grief,  has  possession  of  us,  it 
can  hardly  be  said  to  depart,  even  during 
the  forgetfulness  of  sleep.  It  rests, 
almost  with  a  palpable  weight,  on  our 
slumbering  senses,  as  if  importunate  for 
recognition  on  the  first  instant  of  return 
ing  sensation.  And  thus  the  moment 
of  awaking  on  the  morrow  after  some 
heavy  stroke  of  affliction  is  like  a  re 
newal  of  that  on  which  the  blow  origin 
ally  fell.  Our  earliest  consciousness  is 
a  sense  of  some  misfortune  waiting  to 
assail  us  the  very  instant  our  eyes  open 
on  the  world. 

But,  after  the  first  shock,  Celia  found 
herself  more  capable,  than  under  the 
weary  depression  of  the  preceding  even 
ing,  of  reviewing,  with  some  degree  of 
calm,  the  new  phases  of  her  destiny. 
Sleep,  that  gives  fresh  power  and  zest 
to  enjoy,  renews  also,  in  youth  especially, 
our  courage  to  suffer.  A  cold  bath,  her 

*  "As  flowerets,  by  the  frosty  breath  of  night 

Shut  up  and  drooping,  soon  as  daylight  glows 
Spring  on  their  stems  all  open  and  upright, 
Even  so  my  wearied  courage  freshly  rose." 

PARSON'S  Translation. 


BEYOND  THE  BREAKERS. 


constant  daily  practice,  while  it  braced 
her  limbs,  seemed  to  extend  its  invigor 
ating  influence  to  her  mind  likewise. 
Her  toilet  completed,  she  threw  open  a 
window  that  looked  out  southward  on 
the  valley,  and  sat  down  beside  it. 

To  the  healthy  mind  there  is  some 
thing  strangely  hopeful  in  the  fresh 
morning  air  and  the  calm  beauty  of  the 
early  landscape.  It  comes  to  the  sor 
rowful  a  reminder  of  happiness  yet  re 
maining.  Celia  felt  the  encouraging  im 
pulse  it  imparted. 

All,  except  it  be  impassive  or  defiant 
spirits — and  our  heroine  was  not  one  of 
these — bend  before  the  first  blast  of  ad 
versity,  the  brave  heart  and  the  coward 
ly  alike.  But  there  is  this  difference : 
some  are  of  an  inherent  feebleness  that 
is  beaten  down,  like  the  slightly-rooted 
maize-stalk,  hopelessly  prostrate,  to  rise 
and  flourish  no  more.  Others,  who  at 
first  seem  equally  overwhelmed,  have 
within  them  a  recuperative  principle — an 
elastic  spirit  not  to  be  subdued — that 
rallies  when  the  immediate  pressure  is 
removed,  and  rises,  like  the  lithe  willow, 
erect,  when  the  storm  has  passed.  Hap 
py  he  who  is  numbered  among  these 
children  of  hope  ! 

It  is  often  difficult,  until  the  day  of 
trial  comes,  to  decide  to  which  of  these 
classes  one  belongs.  This  was  now  to 
be  determined  in  Celia's  case,  and  the 
first  indications  seemed  favorable. 

Hartland's  house  was  situated,  as  we 
have  said,  on  the  southern  extremity  of 
the  village.  Beyond  the  shrubbery  that 
immediately  surrounded  it  lay  a  pasture 
clotted  with  small  clumps  of  trees :  the 
green  herbage,  with  Spring's  freshness 
on  it,  glistening  in  the  morning  dew. 
Beyond  that  again  were  grain-fields,  their 
boundaries  marked  with  a  fringe  of 
dwarf  copsewood  ;  and  to  the  right,  some 
three-quarters  of  a  mile  distant,  rose 
that  semicircular  range  of  hills  to  which 
we  have  already  alluded,  with  orchards 
which  the  rich  pink  blossom  of  the 
peach,  now  in  its  early  bloom,  decked 
out  in  gayest  beauty. 

Celia  gazed  on  this  placid,  rural  scene, 
pensively,  sadly  it  is  true,  but  without 
bitterness.  The  terrible  impatience  of 


suffering  which,  the  day  before,  had 
caused  her  to  pace  the  room  as  if  to  es 
cape  from  a  burden  too  heavy  to  bear, 
was  gone.  She  sorrowed,  but  no  longer 
as  those  who  have  no  hope.  The  charms 
of  the  external  world  brought  soothing, 
not  flouting,  to  her  sorrow.  The  small 
birds  that  made  their  home  in  the 
branches  of  the  neighboring  acacias, 
their  blithe  notes  ringing  out  cheerily  in 
the  morning  air,  were  welcome.  Burns' 
poor,  lost  songstress  complained  to  Na 
ture  of  the  earth's  freshness  and  bloom 
— to  the  very  birds  that  their  songs 
broke  her  heart ;  and  never  did  hopeless 
desolation  find  truer  interpreter  of  its 
despair.  He  is  steeped  in  misery  to  the 
lips  who  is  beyond  the  reach  of  consola 
tion  from  our  great  Mother,  smiling  on 
him  in  her  daily  beauty,  speaking  to  him 
in  her  thousand  voices  of  love. 

But  though  the  sense  of  an  intolerable 
burden  had  passed  away,  poor  Celia's 
heart  was  very,  very  heavy.  And  she 
began  to  think,  more  than  the  evening 
before  she  had,  of  the  loss  of  property, 
and  of  the  plan  of  life  which  it  behooved 
her,  in  consequence,  to  adopt. 

A  chance  thought  first  brought  home 
to  her  a  consciousness  of  the  practical 
workings  of  poverty.  She  felt  an  espe 
cial  longing,  this  morning,  for  her  daily 
ride — for  the  free  air,  the  quiet  of  the 
shady  forest,  the  bracing  excitement  of 
quick  and  easy  motion.  But  these  were 
luxuries  which  she  would  now  have  to 
deny  herself.  She  recollected  that,  in 
her  guardian's  accounts,  he  had  charged 
her  two  dollars  and  a  half  a  week  for  the 
keep  and  care  of  Bess.  She  had  never 
bestowed  a  second  thought  on  the  item  ; 
but  now  it  occurred  to  her  that,  if  she 
was  to  seek  her  own  living,  a  hundred 
and  thirty  dollars  annually  added  to  her 
expenses,  for  an  object  not  at  all  of  ne 
cessity,  was  an  imprudence  which  she 
must  avoid.  It  cost  her  a  pang  to  come 
to  this  conclusion.  To  part  with  her 
beautiful  pony,  so  gentle,  so  spirited, 
that  she  had  learned  to  love  so  well — 
Sydenham's  gift,  too ! 

The  breakfast-bell  broke  in  on  these 

unwelcome  cogitations.      Hartland  kept 

1  early  hours,  according   to    the  primitive 


1 32 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


habits  of  the  country:  it  was  half-past 
six. 

The  breakfast  passed  over  without 
comment.  The  uncle's  thoughts  were 
engrossed  with  a  butterfly — a  new  species 
he  had  found  the  day  before— and  he 
dilated  to  Celia  on  its  beauty.  Mrs. 
Hartland  looked  anxiously  at  her  niece 
several  times.  As  they  rose,  and  after 
Mr.  Hartland  had  gone,  she  said, 

"  Celia,  my  love,  are  you  not  well  ?" 

"  Quite  well,  dear  mother,  except  a 
slight  headache,  and,  I  believe"  —  she 
tried  to  say  it  lightly — "a  touch  of  low 
spirits.  An  hour  or  two  in  the  saddle 
will  do  me  good." 

"  Is  anything  wrong,  my  child?  Has 
Mow  bray — " 

«  Do  not  alarm  yourself  about  Mow- 
bray  and  me.  Nothing  has  occurred 
between  us  except  what  you  know.  I 
dare  say  it  is  all  best  just  as  it  is." 

«  There  is  something  wrong,  Celia.  or 
you  would  not — '' 

"  Between  Mowbray  and  me,  nothing, 
I  do  assure  you,  mother.  I  have  not 
seen  him,  or  heard  of  him,  for  several 
days." 

"It  is  so  unnatural  for  you  to  say, 
while  your  uncle  seems  to  become  daily 
more  averse  to  your  marriage,  that  it  is 
all  for  the  best." 

"  Did  I  say  so  ?" 

«  Did  you  not  ?" 

"  I  was  thinking,  I  believe,  how  ne 
cessary  it  is  to  be  very,  very  sure  of  a 
man's  character  before  one  marries  him. 
And  you  know,  mother,  that  in  two  or 
three  years  I  shall  be  absolutely  free  to 
choose,  if,  in  the  mean  time,  neither 
Evelvn  nor  I  change  our  minds." 

"//"neither  of  you  change  !" 

"  Why  should  we  not  ?  This  is  a 
changeful  world.  Circumstances  change, 
and  they  say  we  are  the  creatures  of 
circumstances.  And  how  much  better 
that  a  lover  should  change  before  mar 
riage  than  a  husband  afterward!" 

"This  from  you,  Celia!" 

"  Is  it  not  true,  dear  mother?  And  in 
a  world  of  such  uncertainty,  is  it  not 
well  to  be  prepared  for  the  worst  ?  Have 
I  been  so  thoughtless  hitherto,"  she  add 
ed,  with  a  faint  smile  as  she  noted  Mrs. 


Hartland's  increasing  anxiety,  "that  if  I 
utter  a  sage  reflection  or  two  on  the  in 
stability  of  human  affairs,  you  must  needs 
conjure  up  mystery  and  misfortune  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know  you,  this  morning, 
my  child.  Your  dear  mother  felt,  when 
she  confided  her  orphan  to  my  hands, 
that  she  would  never  want  a  parent's 
care  or  sympathy  while  I  lived.  And 
you  used  to  confide  in  me,  Celia.' 

Poor  Celia's  tears,  with  difficulty  re 
strained  till  now,  filled  her  eyes.  She 
threw  her  arms  round  Mrs.  Hartland's 
neck  and  kissed  her  again  and  again.  « I 
do,  oh  indeed  I  do  !"  she  said.  «  My 
own  mamma  could  not  have  been  kinder. 
Pray,  pray,  don't  cry.  You  shall  know 
all  that  has  been  vexing  me.  But  not 
now.  I  know  Mr.  Hartland  expects 
you  in  the  library  to  color  the  sketch 
of  that  wonderful  butterfly  he  has  been 
describing  to  us  ;  and  there  is  Bess  at 
the  door.  When  I  return  you  shall 
know  all." 

"It  has  nothing  to  do  with  Mow- 
bray  ?" 

"  Dear  mother  that  cares  so  much 
about  my  happiness !  I  have  already 
told  you  that  nothing  whatever  has  passed 
between  Mowbray  and  me  that  need  dis 
tress  you." 

"  Then  I  dare  say  all  will  be  well  yet." 

«  Perhaps." 

"  You  are  a  riddle  to  me  this  morning, 
Celia.  But  there  is  Mr.  Hartland's  voice. 
A  pleasant  ride,  dear  child." 

Through  bypaths  that  skirted  the  vil 
lage,  Celia  reached  the  main  road  leading 
west  toward  the  railroad  station  :  then 
she  put  the  little  mare  to  a  canter,  caught 
a  glimpse  of  Mr.  Harper  at  work  in  his 
flower-garden  as  she  passed,  arrested 
the  animal's  inclination  to  take  the  side 
road  which  turned  off  to  Sydenham's 
residence,  and  galloped  on,  without 
drawing  rein,  until  she-  was  fairly  in  the 
shelter  of  the  woods.  There  she  checked 
Bess's  speed,  and,  a  little  farther  on, 
diverging  from  the  main  road  into  a  path 
on  the  right  hand — an  ancient  Indian 
trace  that  led  to  Tyler's  mill — she  found 
herself  traversing  the  same  solitude  that 
had  been  broken,  a  hundred  years  be- 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


133 


fore,  only  by  tread  of  wild  beast,  or  of 
the  red  man,  scarcely  less  wild,  who  was 
pursuing  him. 

There  is  something  wonderfully  tran- 
quilizing  in  the  deep  stillness  of  these 
primeval  forests.  Alone  with  Nature  in 
one  of  her  most  impressive  garbs,  that 
which  is  natural  and  genuine  in  our  feel 
ings  expands,  and  asserts  the  mastery 
over  the  meretricious  and  the  conven 
tional.  Under  that  stately  shelter  we 
seem,  in  a  measure,  protected  from  the 
capricious  influences  of  an  artificial  world. 
In  the  haunts  of  men  the  eternal  prin 
ciples  of  right  and  justice  appeal  to  the 


reason  :  here  they  speak  to  the  heart. 
We  distinguish  truth  in  society,  but  we 
feel  it  in  the  solemnity  of  the  forest. 

This  was  telling  now  upon  Celia. 
Her  rapid  ride,  too,  had  had  its  usual  in 
spiriting  effect.  The  fresh  bloom  came 
in  her  cheeks  ;  the  languor  was  gone 
from  her  eye  ;  her  courage  rose.  The 
spirit  of  the  place  was  upon  her:  the 
very  color  of  her  destiny  seemed  to 
change  under  the  influence  of  the  scene. 

As,  in  such  mood  and  with  slackened 
rein,  she  passed  slowly  on,  an  incident 
occurred,  of  which  the  results  materially 
influenced  her  fortunes. 


PART    VII. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 
A  TALK    IX   THE  FOREST. 

"  L'alternative  des  succes  et  des  revers  a  son  utilite". 
Nous  nous  plaignons  de  1'inconstance  de  la  fortune. 
C'est  de  sa  Constance  que  nous  devrions  nous  plain- 
dre ;  alors,  en  erfet,  elle  a  plus  de  moyens  de  nous 
coirompre."* 

DEGERANDO,  "  Dn  Perfectionnement  Moral." 

ONE  of  the  long  vistas  characteristic 
of  the  rude  country-paths  by  which 
the  early  settlers  threaded  their  way  from 
cabin  to  cabin  opened  before  Celia  ;  and 
the  animal  she  rode,  raising  its  head  and 
pointing  its  small,  taper  ears,  caused  the 
rider  to  look  round,  in  expectation  of 
some  one's  approach. 

The  road  before  her  was  vacant,  but 
off  to  the  right,  through  the  open  woods, 
gay  with  blossoms  of  the  dogwood  and 
the  redbud,  she  thought  she  distinguish 
ed  in  the  distance  a  horseman,  riding  in 
the  same  direction  as  herself. 

«  It  must  be  Sydenham,"  she  thought, 
for  she  knew  that  the  bridle-path  from 
his  residence  to  Tylers  mill  led  through 
these  woods,  and  connected,  a  few  hun 
dred  yards  farther  on,  with  the  road  she 
was  pursuing.  Yes,  it  was  he.  But 
how  was  she  to  meet  him  ? — what  to  say 
to  him  ?  Should  she  reveal  all,  and  ask 
his  advice  ? 

An  hour  before  she  would  have  shrunk 
from  such  a  disclosure.  But  now  a 
quickened  pulse  gave  bolder  impulses. 
She  took  heart.  She  felt  that  the  world 
must  soon  know  her  real  position  ;  and 
who  so  worthy  of  her  confidence,  or  so 
capable  to  counsel  her  in  her  present 
strait,  as  her  mother's  trusted  friend,  to 
whom  she  was  already  beholden  for  so 
much  encouragement  in  her  former  trou 
bles — ah,  such  petty  troubles  they  seem 
ed  now  !  But  if  she  was  to  say  any 
thing  to  him  at  all,  it  must  be  at  once, 
ere  courage  cooled  :  she  felt  that. 

If  she  had  any  remaining  hesitation, 

*  "  The  alternation  of  success  and  reverse  is  useful. 
We  complain  of  the  inconstancy  of  fortune,  but  its 
constancy  would  corrupt  us  more." 

PEABODY'S  Translation. 
'34 


it  was  dispelled  by  Sydenham's  mannei 
— the  evident  pleasure  with  which  he 
met  her,  the  cordial  earnestness  with 
which  he  extended  his  hand  and  in 
quired  after  her  welfare. 

"  And  Bess  still  continues  to  behave 
well  ?"  he  asked  as  they  rode  on  to 
gether. 

« No  creature  could  behave  better. 
So  full  of  spirit  and  so  docile,  too, 
as  she  is  !  She  knows  me,  and  I  do 
believe  loves  me,  for  she  will  come, 
at  my  call,  from  the  farthest  corner  of 
our  pasture.  It  is  hard  to  part  with 
a  favorite,"  she  added,  sadly,  stoop 
ing  over  the  pony's  neck  and  patting  it 
fondly. 

The  tone,  more  than  the  words,  ar 
rested  Sydenham's  attention. 

"  I  know,  Mr.  Sydenham,"  she  re 
joined,  looking  up,  » that  you  must  have 
thought  me  foolish  and  unreasonable." 

«  When  ?" 

»  Do  you  remember  the  day  Brunette 
ran  away  with  Mrs.  Hartland  and  Lela 
— the  day  we  had  that  long  conversation 
together?" 

"As  if  it  were  yesterday." 

"You  thought  me  weak  and  childish 
then  :  do  not  deny  it." 

"  I  thought  you  inexperienced  —  de 
pressed  without  sufficient  cause.  I  did 
miss  in  you  a  certain  force  of  mind  —  a 
spirit  that  often  lies  dormant  within  us 
till  circumstances  call  it  forth." 

"  I  am  ashamed  of  myself  when  I 
look  back  upon  it.  I  know  now  exactly 
what  you  must  have  thought  of  me.  I 
hope  you  are  right  when  you  say  that 
there  is  often  within  us  more  than  ap 
pears  during  prosperity.  I  had  every 
thing  to  make  me  happy  in  those  days — 
everything :  kind  friends,  a  respected 
name,  an  easy  competency.  I  had  noth 
ing,  absolutely  nothing,  as  an  excuse  for 
low  spirits.  The  delay  of  my  marriage 
with  Mowbray,  how  little,  in  reality,  did 
that  signify  !  I  once  heard  you  say  that 
girls  marry  too  young  in  this  country. 


BEYOND    THE   BREAKERS. 


'35 


So  they  do  :   they  marry  in  haste,  to  re 
pent  at  leisure." 

Sydenham  was  thoroughly  alarmed. 
"  What  is  the  matter  ?"  he  said.  "  Tell 
me  at  once." 

"  Why  do  you  imagine  that  something 
terrible  has  happened  ?" 

"What  is  it,  Celia  ?  It  is  useless  to 
attempt  to  deceive  me.  Some  influence 
is  changing  your  character.  It  is  not 
the  old  Celia  I  used  to  know." 

"  Do  I  look  as  downcast  now  as  when 
I  came  to  complain  to  you  that  day  of 
my  hard  fate  ?" 

"  No :  you  are  a  different  creature. 
You  are  agitated,  and  I  am  sure  some 
thing  is  amiss.  But  there  is  a  light  in 
your  eye  and  a  determination  in  your 
tone  that  seem  anything  but  downcast." 

«  I  am  glad  of  it.  At  least  you  will 
not  feel  contempt  for  me." 

"  Celia,  do  I  deserve  this  ?  Did  I  not 
promise  your  mother  that  I  would  watch 
over  her  daughter's  happiness  ?  Why 
will  you  keep  me  in  suspense  ?  What 
is  it  ?" 

"  My  father  deceived  that  mother  you 
knew  so  well.  He  was  already  married. 
I  am  an  illegitimate  child.  Not  a  dol 
lar  of  my  father's  property  belongs  to  me. 
I  am  a  penniless  orphan,  who  must  work 
for  her  bread  and  make  her  own  way  in 
the  world." 

"Good  God  !" 

And  Sydenham  involuntarily  checked 
his  horse  so  sharply  that  the  spirited 
animal  started  and  reared  against  the  bit. 

For  a  moment  the  girl  and  her  auditor 
seemed  suddenly  to  have  exchanged  cha 
racters.  She  sat  erect  and  quiet,  her 
graceful  form  drawn  up  to  its  full  height: 
her  young  face,  shaded  by  the  wide- 
rimmed  riding-hat,  very  sad  indeed,  but 
quite  calm  ;  and  though  her  voice  trem 
bled  somewhat,  she  spoke  so  deliberate 
ly,  and  met  Sydenham's  first  agitated 
glance  of  alarm,  astonishment,  incred 
ulity  with  a  look  so  steady  and  collect 
ed,  that  it  took  him  almost  as  much  by 
surprise  as  the  astounding  tidings  she 
had  just  imparted. 

But  this  was  for  the  first  moment  of 
excitement  only,  and  then  nature  and 
habit  reasserted  their  power.  Syden 


ham's  evident  dismay  was  communicating 
itself  to  Celia.  He  saw  it,  and  it  recall 
ed  his  self-possession  at  once.  Putting 
his  horse  again  in  motion,  he  came  close 
to  her  side  and  spoke  in  his  usual  tone  : 

«  So  !  You  have  surprised  me.  Ah, 
this  comes  from  Cranstoun." 

"Yes." 

"  The  man  is  capable  of  any  duplicity. 
Did  he  give  you  proof?" 

"  Papa's  own  letters,  written  about 
seventeen  years  ago,  admitting  the  fact 
of  his  previous  marriage,  and  adjuring 
Cranstoun  to  silence." 

"  You  are  sure  of  the  handwriting  ?" 

"  Perfectly  sure.  Mamma  preserved 
many  of  papa's  letters :  I  have  read 
them  often,  and  I  cannot  be  deceived  in 
this." 

«  It  may  be,"  said  Sydenham,  after  a 
pause,  for  the  strange  influence  Cran 
stoun  had  maintained  for  years  over  one 
so  dissimilar  to  him  in  character  and 
station  occurred  forcibly  to  his  mind. 
"It  may  be  —  probably  it  is.  At  all 
events,  the  facts  can  be  positively  ascer 
tained,  and  they  shall  be." 

«  Oh  they  are  true  :  do  not  doubt  it, 
Mr.  Sydenham.  They  explain  so  much 
in  papa's  conduct  that  was  unaccount 
able  till  now." 

"  I  have  admitted  that  they  are  prob 
able.  Well,  Celia  ?" 

«  It  is  very  terrible,  is  it  not  ?" 

"  No.  I  fear  I  have  forfeited  all  claim 
to  be  believed  when  I  say  so.  You  did 
startle  me,  Celia  —  that  is  the  truth — 
coming  out  with  that  sudden,  solemn  an 
nouncement,  but  there  is  nothing  terrible 
in  what  you  told  me." 

"  Have  I  not  just  cause  for  unhap- 
piness  ?" 

"  For  unhappiness,  no  :  for  regret, 
certainly.  It  is  a  very  painful  thing  to 
hear  of  a  parent's  misconduct." 

"  Oh  so  very  painful !" 

"  And  it  would  not  be  one's  duty,  as 
it  is,  to  watch  over  the  preservation  of 
one's  property  if  its  loss  were  not  an 
evil." 

"  I  remember  well  your  once  explain 
ing  to  me  how  much  independence  there 
is  in  forty  thousand  dollars." 

"You   have   a  good   memory,    and  I 


1 35 


BETOND    THE   BREAKERS. 


will  not  gainsay  that  opinion.  Independ 
ence  is  the  power  to  act,  within  lawful 
limits,  as  we  please  ;  and  money  adds 
greatly  to  that  power.  I  am  very  sorry 
for  your  loss  ;  yet,  after  all,  it  may  prove 
a  gain  to  you." 

"  I  have  often  read,"  said  Celia  with 
a  sigh,  "  of  the  chastening  and  purify 
ing  effects  of  adversity." 

"  That  sentiment  is  to  be  taken  with 
some  grains  of  allowance.  Many,  doubt 
less,  have  been  able  to  say  from  the 
heart,  '  It  is  good  for  me  that  I  have 
been  afflicted.'  But  there  is  a  grinding 
adversity  that  crushes  oftener  than  it  re 
forms.  I  have  seen  terrible  things  in 
the  course  of  my  life,  Celia — not  here, 
but  in  the  Old  World — terrible  things 
that  make  one  shudder  to  recall  them  : 
entire  masses  of  human  beings  dying 
for  lack  of  food  ;  selling  their  youth  and 
their  health,  and  at  last  their  very  lives, 
for  a  pittance  too  small  to  keep  body  and 
soul  together.  I  was  in  Ireland  during 
that  dreadful  famine  of  1847.  It  haunted 
my  dreams  for  years  !  Ah,  Celia,  if  you 
could  but  imagine  the  utter  destitution 
that  is  the  lot  of  millions,  how  small 
would  seem  your  present  loss  !  —  how 
numberless  the  comforts  that  are  still 
within  your  reach  !" 

Sydenham's  kindling  eyes  and  stirring 
words  touched  Celia  to  the  soul.  How 
faithfully  the  heart  feels  for  others  when 
it  begins  to  learn  sorrow  by  experience 
of  its  own  ! 

"  It  is  true,"  she  said,  submissively. 
"  I  should  be  most  unthankful  if  I  for 
got  that  I  have  far  more  to  rejoice  at 
than  to  deplore.  If  I  may  but  retain  the 
affection  and  esteem  of  my  friends  !  But 
some  of  them  of  course  I  shall  lose — " 

»  Is  that  your  idea  of  friends  ?  I  es 
teem  you  much  more  than  I  did  before. 
To  me  there  was  always  something  pleas 
ant  and  attractive  about  you,  Celia.  But 
I  confess  you  have  sometimes  seemed 
to  me,  like  many  other  girls  one  meets 
with  in  the  world,  very  good  and  amiable 
doubtless — 

«  Love-sick  damsels,  in  short." 

"  I  never  thought  you  that.  But  one 
felt  the  lack  of  something  vigorous,  racy, 
self-relying.  You  are  graining  that.  You 


bear  this  trial  admirably  well.  I  see 
that  it  will  be  of  real  service  to  your 
character.  Why,  it  has  strengthened  it 
already.  You  are  coming  out  grandly, 
Celia." 

How  grateful  sometimes — more  genial 
than  sunshine,  more  welcome  than  the 
first  fresh  air  of  spring  —  comes  the 
breath  of  praise  from  those  we  love  !  It 
brings  on  its  wings  healing  to  the  wounds 
of  sorrow,  healthy  invigoration  to  the 
spirit  sick  and  depressed.  Wholly  un 
wonted  as  it  was  from  Sydenham,  it 
proved  to  Celia,  at  this  juncture,  inex 
pressibly  soothing.  Her  heart  felt  braver 
at  each  word. 

"Ah,  Mr.  Sydenham,"  she  said,  "if 
others  did  but  feel  as  you  do,  how 
easily  I  could  bear  the  loss  of  fortune, 
and  even  of  name  !  But  you,  who  never 
deceive  any  one,  even  in  kindness,  will 
not  tell  me  that  of  those  who  flattered 
the  heiress  none  will  desert  the  penniless  • 
girl  with  a  stain  on  her  birth." 

"  You  are  right.  I  shall  certainly  not 
try  to  persuade  you  that  you  will  lose  no 
flatterers.  I  do  not  even  say  that  you 
will  have  the  same  chance  which  the 
heiress  might  have  had  of  enlarging  your 
circle  of  acquaintances." 

"  I  know  it  well.  Ah  !  that  true  line 
of  the  ballad  —  '  The  poor  make  no  new 
friends.'  " 

"  Now  you  are  running  away  with  the 
idea.  That  line  is  touchingly  true,  and 
it  came  from  the  experience  of  the  heart, 
whoever  wrote  it.  But  there  is  little 
chance  that  it  should  ever  apply  to  you. 
You  do  not  know  —  I  hope  you  never 
will — what  poverty  means." 

"  I  must  work  for  a  living  now." 

"  But  that  is  not  poverty  in  this  coun 
try,  especially  in  a  village  like  Chiskauga, 
It  is  not  even  hardship,  if  one  has  an 
education  to  fit  for  useful  and  profitable 
employment,  with  good  friends  to  inter 
est  themselves  in  procuring  it ;  and  you 
have  both,  Celia.  No  new  friends  ! 
Look  round  you,  and  see  how  many 
maintain  themselves  happily,  reputably, 
increasing  both  in  money  and  in  friends, 
with  far  less  resources.  Your  education 
has  been  no  common  one.  You  have  a 
good  knowledge  of  two  foreign  languages : 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


137 


Ethan  speaks  highly  of  your  progress  in 
German.  Your  talent  for  music,  rare 
by  nature  and  carefully  cultivated,  is.  in 
itself,  a  competence.  I  admit  that  you 
no  longer  possess  the  independence 
which  a  surplus  of  money  bestows  ;  but 
you  have  a  surer  one,  of  which  no  man 
can  deprive  you — the  independence  which 
lies  in  labor — less  honored  than  the  other, 
but  more  honorable.  And  if,  in  seeking 
it,  you  find  those  whom  you  call  friends 
dropping  away,  let  them  go  !  You  are 
better  without  them." 

"  You  think,  then,  that  this  reverse  of 
fortune  is  a  gain  instead  of  a  loss  to  me." 

"The  future  must  determine  that. 
Many  pleasant  things,  of  course,  you 
will  lose  by  it — the  opportunity  of  travel 
ing,  for  instance.  I  know  you  have 
had  dreams  of  Switzerland  and  Italy, 
and  I'm  afraid  I  had  something  to  do  in 
nursing  them.  The  very  butterfly  ac 
quaintances  that  come  round  us  when 
the  sun  shines,  though  they  may  not  be 
friends,  are  often  agreeable,  well-informed 
people,  whom  we  may  like  to  meet  and 
be  sorry  to  lose.  But  then  you  gain 
one  of  the  essentials  to  happiness." 

"  What  is  that  ?" 

"  A  regular,  settled  object  in  life  —  a 
steady  pursuit  (I  see  you  have  deter 
mined  on  that),  requiring  daily  exertion 
of  body  and  mind.  I'd  like  to  give  you 
— for  it  touches  your  case — a  recollection 
of  my  childhood  ?" 

"  If  it  is  not  encroaching  on  your  time, 
Mr.  Sydenham,  I  should  be  delighted. 
But  you  came  out  on  business,  did  you 
not  ?" 

"  Chiefly  for  exercise  this  fine  spring 
weather,  with  a  message  from  Leoline  to 
Nelson  Tyler  about  flour."  They  were 
then  within  a  few  rods  of  the  mill.  "Let 
me  deliver  it,  and  my  time  is  entirely  at 
your  service  for  the  rest  of  the  morning."  ' 

They  rode  up,  and  the  miller,  his  gray 
clothes  well  sprinkled  with  dust,  came 
out  to  greet  them,  and  to  ask  Mr.  Syd 
enham  what  he  could  do  for  him.  After 
he  had  taken  an  order  for  two  barrels  of 
flour,  Celia,  whose  thoughts  had  reverted 
to  the  anonymous  letter,  inquired  after 
Ellen's  welfare.  A  slight  shade  came 
over  the  miller's  hearty  manner  and  open 


face,  but  after  a  moment's  hesitation  he 
called  to  his  daughter,  his  deep,  base 
tones  reaching  their  dwelling,  which 
stood  a  little  way  off.  Thence  Ellen 
came  forward,  fresh  and  neat  indeed,  but 
with  a  look  of  depression  over  her  pretty 
features.  When  she  recognized  Celia, 
a  sudden  blush  overspread  face  and 
bosom. 

"  Ellen,"  said  her  father,  himself  some 
what  embarrassed,  "  Miss  Celia  has  been 
asking  after  you." 

Celia  extended  her  hand  and  shook 
Ellen's  cordially. 

"  We  seldom  see  you  in  town  now, 
Ellen,"  she  said:  "are  you  no  longer 
taking  French  lessons  from  Mrs.  Mow- 
bray  ?" 

The  blush,  which  had  been  passing 
away,  deepened  again.  But  the  girl 
struggled  for  composure:  "No,  Miss 
Celia.  Mrs.  Mowbray's  French  class  is 
broken  up,  and — and  it's  expensive  to 
take  private  lessons." 

"  Do  you  wish  to  join  another  class  ?" 

Ellen  looked  at  her  father. 

"  The  reason  I  ask,"  added  Celia,  "  is, 
because  I  may  have  a  French  class  my 
self  one  of  these  days." 

"  You  !"  said  the  girl,  her  blue  eyes 
dilating  with  astonishment.  "  I  thought 
rich  folks—" 

"  I  am  not  rich  ;  and,  besides,  it  is  a 
good  thing  for  young  people  to  do  some 
thing  for  a  living." 

"  I  should  be  very  glad,  Miss  Celia — 
that  is — if  father —  She  stopped,  read 
ing  dissent  in  his  face. 

"  It's  very  kind  of  you,"  he  said — 
"very  kind,  Miss  Celia:  I  shall  not  for 
get  it.  If  Ellen  takes  any  more  French 
lessons,  I'll  send  her  to  nobody  but  you. 
But  I  think  she's  had  as  many  as  will 
do  her  any  good  for  the  present.  That 
was  a  true  word  you  said,  miss,  that 
young  folks  should  do  something  for  a 
living ;  and  this  lass  of  mine "  —  he 
patted  her  head — "  she's  a  good  girl,  if 
she  does  dress  out  now  and  then,  and 
even  herself  to  them  that  cares  little  for 
her — she  does  what  she  can  to  take  her 
dead  mother's  place.  I  want  to  do  the 
best  for  her,  if  I  only  knew  what  is  best. 
If  anything  were  to  happen  to  me — " 


I3S 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


"  Oh  don't,  father,  don't !"  said  the 
girl,  her  eyes  full  of  tears  ;  and  then, 
ashamed  of  her  emotion,  she  made  a 
sudden  retreat  to  the  house. 

"You  must  excuse  her,  miss,"  said 
Tyler  to  Celia  :  "  she  don't  mean  to  be 
uncivil,  and  it's  done  her  good  that  you 
spoke  so  kind  to  her;  but  she  can't  stand 
it  to  think  the  old  man  must  go  one  of 
these  days.  Mr.  Sydenham,  you  may 
count  on  having  that  flour  this  evening." 

They  bade  the  miller  good-morning, 
and  turning  homeward  rode  on  for 
some  time  in  silence.  Then  Sydenham 
said  : 

"  I  am  glad  that  we  called  there  this 
morning,  and  very  glad  that  you  spoke 
to  Ellen  as  you  did.  As  the  father 
said,  it  did  the  poor  child  good." 

'<•  I  like  Ellen.  But  I  was  afraid  you 
might  think  me  premature  in  beginning 
to  electioneer,  as  politicians  say,  for 
pupils  already." 

«  Far  from  it.  Promptitude  is  one  of 
the  elements  of  success." 

«  But  that  anecdote,  Mr.  Sydenham — 
Or  was  it  an  anecdote  you  were  about  to 
tell  me  ?" 

"  Yes.  My  good  father — a  man  who, 
even  to  extreme  old  age,  maintained 
habits  of  active  employment — was  speak 
ing,  one  day,  of  an  English  friend  of  his, 
Mr.  Walsingham  —  one  of  those  whom 
the  world  considers  eminently  fortunate. 
A  man  of  letters,  educated  to  every 
classical  attainment  and.  the  inheritor  of 
a  princely  fortune,  he  had  been  able  to 
gratify,  at  a  wish,  his  cultivated  tastes. 
He  had  married,  in  early  life,  an  amiable 
wife,  and  had  seen  his  children  (though 
he  never  personally  concerned  himself 
with  their  education)  grow  up  around 
him  with  the  fairest  promise.  He  had 
a  handsome  town-house  in  a  fashionable 
square  in  London,  and  a  country-seat 
ten  or  twelve  miles  off,  in  the  midst  of 
one  of  those  magnificent  English  parks 
— the  ideal  of  stately  rural  elegance,  with 
its  trimly-kept  lawn  and  its  widespread- 
ing  chase,  dotted  over  with  clumps  of 
noble  old  trees,  where  the  deer  sought 
refuge  from  the  noonday  heat  and  a  lair 
at  nightfall." 

"  I  have  so  often  heard  of  these  beau 


tiful   English   parks,  and  dreamed  that 
some  day  I  might  see  one." 

"  The  dream  may  come  true,  for  all 
that  is  past,  Celia.  Mr.  Walsingham 
had. traveled  over  Europe,  and  brought 
back,  as  mementoes  of  his  journey,  paint 
ings  and  statuary  by  some  of  the  best 
masters,  ancient  and  modern,  with  which 
to  adorn  his  favorite  retreat.  The  house 
itself  (I  have  seen  it  since),  with  its  rich 
marble  columns  and  balustrades,  was  a 
fine  specimen  of  the  purest  Palladian 
manner,  where  all  that  luxurious  refine 
ment  could  devise  had  been  unsparingly 
lavished.  There  my  father  found  his 
friend  with  no  occupation  more  pressing 
than  to  pore  over  the  treasures  of  his 
library,  and  no  graver  care  than  to  su 
perintend  the  riches  of  a  conservatory 
where  wealth  had  brought  together,  from 
half  the  world,  its  choicest  plants  and 
flowers." 

"What  a  charming  life  !"  exclaimed 
Celia.  "  How  happy  he  must  have 
been  !" 

"  That  was  my  father's  thought.  They 
spent  some  days  in  undisturbed  quiet : 
not  an  incident,  beyond  the  conversation 
of  a  sedate  and  intellectual  family  circle 
and  the  arrival  and  departure  of  a  friend 
or  two,  to  break  the  complete  repose. 
Delightful  it  was  to  my  father,  no  doubt, 
in  contrast  with  the  city  bustle  and  the 
constant  occupation  he  had  left.  One 
morning  he  said  to  his  host :  <  I  have 
been  thinking  that  if  I  ever  met  with  a 
man  who  has  nothing  left  to  desire,  you 
are  he.  Health  of  body,  cultivation  of 
mind,  a  charming  family,  wealth  and  all 
it  procures  —  whatever  Nature  and  Art 
present  of  most  beautiful  —  you  have 
them  all.  Are  you  not  completely  hap 
py  ?'  Never,  my  father  said  to  me, 
should  he  forget  the  dreary  sadness  of 
the  unexpected  reply  :  <  Happy  !  Ah, 
Mr.  Sydenham,  I  committed  one  fatal 
error  in  my  youth,  and  clearly  have  I 
abied  it !  I  started  in  life  without  an 
object,  even  without  an  ambition.  My 
temperament  disposed  me  to  ease,  and 
to  the  full  I  indulged  the  disposition.  I 
said  to  myself,  "  I  have  all  that  I  see 
others  contending  for :  why  should  I 
struggle  ?"  I  knew  not  the  curse  that 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


'39 


lights  on  those  who  have  never  to  strug 
gle  for  anything.  Had  I  created  for 
myself  a  definite  pursuit — literary,  scien 
tific,  artistic,  social,  political,  no  matter 
what,  so  there  was  something  to  labor 
for  and  to  overcome — I  might  have  been 
happy.  I  feel  this  now — too  late  !  The 
power  is  gone.  Habits  have  become 
chains.  Through  all  the  profitless  years 
gone  by,  I  seek  vainly  for  something  to 
remember  with  pride,  or  even  to  dwell  on 
with  satisfaction.  I  have  thrown  away 
a  life.  I  feel,  sometimes,  as  if  there 
were  nothing  remaining  to  me  worth 
living  for.  I  am  an  unhappy  man.'  That 
was  my  father's  story.  I  never  forgot 
it,  and  I  trust  I  have  profited  by  its 
lessons." 

"And  so  will  I,  Mr.  Sydenham.  In 
deed,  indeed,  you  shall  not  have  to  fore 
go  your  good  opinion  of  me.  I  know 
how  much  you  have  been  doing  to  bene 
fit  our  village  and  its  inhabitants.  Per 
haps — oh,  in  a  very  humble  way  I  know 
iti  must  be — but  yet  perhaps  I  may  be 
able  to  aid  you,  just  a  little,  while  I  pro 
vide  for  my  own  support." 

"  You  are  thinking  of  a  school.  That 
is  right.  You  really  possess  a  gift  for 
teaching,  as  grateful  Ellinor  Ethelridge 
can  testify." 

"  Dear  Ellie  !  I  have  been  able  to 
assist  her  so  far  ;  but  then— ah,  what  a 
pity  !  If  now  I  begin  a  school  in  oppo- 
ition  to  hers — " 

"  It  might  be  an  injury  to  her,  you 
think  ?  So  it  might.  But  yet,  if  that 
is  really  necessary,  there  is  nothing 
wrong  in  it.  Every  merchant  who  be 
gins  a  business  may  take  from  the  profits 
of  those  already  engaged  in  the  same. 
We  ought  to  be  generous  to  others,  as 
you  have  been  to  Ellinor,  while  we  can 
afford  it ;  but  it  may  become  equally  a 
duty,  if  circumstances  change,  to  be  just 
to  ourselves." 

Celia  sighed :  "I  am  beginning  to 
find  out  the  pleasant  things  I  have  lost." 

"  The  exercise  of  generosity  is  one  of 
the  most  pleasant  things  that  money 
permits." 

"  But  I  am  resolved  never  to  take  any 
of  Ellie's  scholars  away  from  her,  even 
if  they  apply  to  me." 


"  Very  good.  One  can  be  generous, 
you  see,  without  being  rich  ;  and  such 
generosity  is  worth  more,  for  it  costs 
more,  than  what  we  carelessly  give  from 
superfluity.  But  perhaps  there  need  be 
no  competition  between  you.  I  know 
that  Miss  Ethelridge  has  almost  daily 
offers  of  pupils  whom  she  refuses,  fear 
ing  to  take  a  greater  number  than  she 
can  do  justice  to.  These  applications 
would  be  more  numerous  still  if  she 
could  teach  music,  as  you  can.  What 
if  you  were  to  join  her  and  carry  on  the 
school  in  partnership  ?  I  am  sure  there 
will  be  found  enough  for  both  to  do." 

When  they  came  to  talk  over  the  de 
tails  of  the  plan,  Sydenham  asked, 
"  Have  you  not  some  money  which  came 
to  you  through  your  mother  ?" 

"About  sixteen  or  seventeen  hundred 
dollars,  I  think  my  uncle  once  told  me. 
That  is  legally  mine,  is  it  not  ?" 

"  Undoubtedly,  even  if  all  the  rest  is 
gone.  Now  let  me  give  you  one  or  two 
business  hints  that  occur  to  me.  Shall 
you  propose  to  Miss  Ethelridge  to  be 
equal  partner  with  her  in  her  school  ?" 

"That  would  not  be  just.  She  has 
worked  hard  to  establish  it  and  build  up 
its  reputation." 

"  You  are  right.  For  this  you  ought 
to  give  some  equivalent.  I  happen  to 
know  that  Miss  Ethelridge  thinks  it  an 
admirable  plan  to  teach  children  as  much 
as  possible  through  the  eye,  and  that  she 
wishes  much  to  obtain  a  set  of  hand 
some  illustrations  ;  some  representing 
objects  of  natural  history,  including  geol 
ogy  ;  others,  charts  exhibiting  what  has 
been  called  the  stream  of  Time,  bring 
ing  tangibly  before  children  the  leading 
events  and  revolutions  of  ancient  and 
modern  history.  Then  she  would  like 
to  have  a  large  magic  lantern,  with  slides 
affording  other  useful  illustrations  ;  also 
to  have  photographs  of  the  most  inter 
esting  scenes  in  our  own  and  in  for 
eign  countries.  It  would  be  of  great 
advantage  to  the  school.  But  all  that 
is  expensive." 

"  Would  the  money  I  have  purchase 
it  ?" 

"  A  thousand  dollars,  she  said,  would 
be  enough.  I  offered  to  advance  that 


140 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


sum,  but  she  is  sensitive  about  obliga 
tions,  and  declined.  I  think  she  would 
receive  it  from  you  as  an  equivalent 
for  the  privilege  of  equal  partnership  ; 
and  then  the  illustrations,  when  they  are 
bought,  should  be  considered  the  joint 
property  of  both.  There  would  still  re 
main  to  you  six  or  seven  hundred  dol 
lars,  which  you  ought  to  keep,  in  case 
of  accidents." 

The  discussion  of  this  and  other  mat 
ters  connected  with  the  proposed  part 
nership  brought  them  to  the  point  where 
the  road  to  Rosebank  diverged,  and 
there  they  parted. 

How  things  were  smoothing  them 
selves  in  Celia's  path  !  How  "way,"  to 
use  the  Quaker  phrase,  "was  opening  be 
fore  her  !"  Sydenham's  proposal  saved 
her  from  even  the  appearance  of  doing  a 
hard  thing — that  severest  trial  of  strait 
ened  circumstances. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 
BREAKING  THE   ICE. 

A  FRIEND  once  said  to  me  :  "  Do  you 
know  I  think  those  old  martyrs  must 
have  been  very  uncomfortable  people  to 
live  with  ?"  At  first  the  idea  struck  me 
as  very  odd — afterward  as  very  true.  I 
should  not  have  relished  a  life  among 
the  Puritans  in  the  days  when  Hester 
Prynne  walked  about  with  that  scarlet 
letter  on  her  breast.  Yet  they  were  a 
grand  old  race,  those  Plymouth-rock 
pilgrims  —  the  stuff  that  heroes  and 
founders  of  empires  are  made  of.  What 
they  thought  right  they  did,  and  seldom 
asked  whether  it  was  pleasant  to  do  it. 
They  were  hard  on  themselves  :  it  is 
not  surprising  that  they  were  hard  also 
on  others.  If  they  were  not  amiable, 
they  were  estimable.  If  they  were  not 
pleasant  people  to  deal  with  in  daily  life, 
they  were  men  and  women  to  trust  to  in 
the  day  of  need  or  in  the  hour  of  trial. 

Thomas  Hartland,  born  in  Connecti 
cut,  had  a  considerable  touch  of  Puritan 
severity  about  him.  He  was,  indeed, 
an  improvement  on  his  father,  a  stern 
old  Englishman  *rho  took  credit  to  him 
self  for  admitting  that  a  man  must  not 


I  chastise  the  wife  of  his  bosom  with  a 
rod  any  thicker  than  his  thumb.  He 
meant  to  be  kind  to  the  gentle  Alice, 
and  he  thought  he  was  because  he  ab 
stained  from  all  physical  coercion.  But 
he  inherited  so  much  of  his  father's 
spirit  as  devoutly  to  believe  that  domes 
tic  discipline  was  wholesome  just  in  pro 
portion  as  it  was  strict  and  exacting. 
If  he  acted  the  tyrant  to  his  wife  and 
son,  it  was  on  principle,  not  from  wick 
edness  :  it  was  because  his  ideas  of 
marital  and  paternal  authority  were  none 
of  the  clearest,  and  because  the  heart 
was  not  warm  enough  to  correct  the 
errors  of  the  head. 

Sydenham  and  he  frequently  came  into 
conflict.  One  day,  for  example,  on  a 
school  committee  of  which  they  were 
both  members,  the  question  of  corporal 
punishment  coming  up,  Sydenham  had 
taken  ground  against  it,  and  Mr.  Harper 
had  added  a  few  words  on  the  same  side. 
This  aroused  Hartland. 

"These  new-fangled,  sentimental  no 
tions,"  he  said,  "  may  suit  squeamish 
people,  but  the  old-fashioned  scriptural 
morality  is  good  enough  for  me.  A  rod 
is  for  the  back  of  him  who  is  void  of  un 
derstanding  !  If  that  text  is  not  plain 
enough,  there  are  others  plainer  yet — 
direct  injunctions  :  'Thou  shalt  beat  the 
child  with  the  rod,  and  shalt  deliver  his 
soul  from  hell.'  Gentlemen  will  not,  I 
think,  deny  the  authority." 

"  The  texts  are  correctly  quoted,"  said 
Sydenham,  quietly  :  "  we  know  that  this 
has  been  said  by  them  of  old  time,  but 
we  know  also  that  the  word  rod  does  not 
occur  even  once  in  all  the  rec^r^ed 
teachings  of  Christ." 

A  bitter  reply  rose  to  Hartland's  lips, 
but  he  restrained  himself.  "What  is 
the  use  ?"  he  thought.  "  A  man  who 
will  encourage  a  son  to  rebel  against  his 
father's  will  !" 

In  this  spirit  it  was  that  Hartland  had 
hitherto  treated  his  niece — with  judicious 
firmness  he  called  it ;  acting  a  father's 
part,  he  thought,  when  he  thwarted  her 
inclinations  and  pressed  Cranstoun's 
suit.  She  was  now*  afraid  to  encounter 
him.  She  found  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hart- 
land  both  out  when  she  returned  from 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


141 


her  ride,  and  it  was  with  fear  and  trem 
bling  she  resolved,  that  same  evening,  to 
disclose  all  to  her  formidable  uncle,  not 
having  had  an  opportunity  previously  to 
converse  with  her  aunt  alone.  She  ex 
pected  her  Cousin  Ethan  to  go  out,  as 
he  often  did,  after  tea,  but  he  remained. 
"  He  is  good  and  kind,"  she  thought : 
"they  may  as  well  all  hear  it  at  once: 
then  it  will  be  over."  Yet  she  shivered, 
like  some  faint-hearted  swimmer  about 
to  take  the  first  plunge.  Even  in  her  dis 
tress  she  had  a  droll  sense  that  she  was 
going  to  break  the  ice  about  as  willingly 
as  a  poor  wretch  might  who  had  risen 
before  sunrise  in  a  fireless  bed-room, 
some  morning  when  the  thermometer 
was  below  zero,  and  found  the  water  in 
his  pitcher  frozen  hard. 

Hartland's  first  surprise  almost  equaled 
Sydenham's,  but  the  two  men  look  the 
disclosure  differently.  The  uncle  felt 
keenly  the  social  disgrace  that  had  over 
taken  his  niece,  and  thought  bitterly  and 
resentfully  of  his  dead  brother-in-law's 
offence.  Yet  toward  the  poor  girl  her 
self  the  better  part  of  his  nature  came 
out  now. 

Celia  began  her  relation  with  hesita 
tion  and  in  an  unsteady  voice,  but  she 
gathered  confidence  as  she  proceeded. 
We  often  lament  that  the  first  keen  relish 
of  a  new  pleasure  fades  in  proportion  as 
it  is  repeated :  we  forget  that,  by  the 
same  law  of  our  nature,  the  sting  of  a 
fresh  misfortune  abates  as,  by  recurrence, 
the  idea  of  it  becomes  familiar.  Even 
the  lapse  of  a  single  day  had  dulled  the 
edge  of  Celia's  sorrow ;  and  the  fortitude 
with  which  she  met  her  fate,  and  the 
composure  with  which  she  declared  to 
Mr.  Hartland  her  resolve  to  earn  her 
own  living  in  the  future  by  teaching,  won 
his  esteem.  He  had  been  far  from  giv 
ing  her  credit  for  so  much  spirit  and  in 
dependence,  and  he  did  not  guess  the 
share  Sydenham  had  had  in  sustaining 
and  encouraging  her. 

Celia's  newly-acquired  equanimity  gave 
way  for  a  time,  however,  before  the  burst 
of  grief  and  the  tender  endearments  of 
her  aunt.  Alice,  who  had  drilled  herself 
to  repress  all  manifestations  of  deep 
emotion  or  outbursts  of  affection  in  the 


presence  of  her  husband,  sat  at  first  with 
fixed  eyes  and  clasped  hands  and  in 
breathless  silence,  scarcely  taking  in  the 
full  import  of  Celia's  appalling  com 
munication,  but  when  the  latter  came  to 
the  expression  of  her  resolution  to  be  a 
burden  to  no  one,  it  seemed  all  to  burst 
upon  her  at  once.  Unable  longer  to  re 
strain  herself,  she  fell  on  her  niece's 
neck,  her  tears  and  sobs  attesting  her 
grief  and  sympathy  ;  called  her  her  dear 
child  and  her  darling  daughter  ;  and  then, 
forgetting  the  presence  of  the  master  of 
the  house,  protested  against  the  idea  of 
her  working  for  a  livelihood,  asking  her 
if  she  did  not  know  that  she  would  al 
ways  have  a  home  with  them,  whatever 
might  betide. 

This  unwonted  encroachment  on  his 
domestic  authority,  which  nothing  but 
his  wife's  ungovernable  excitement  would 
have  tempted  her  to  commit,  almost  up 
set  Hartland's  favorable  disposition  to  his 
niece,  but  he  tried  to  restrain  himself. 

"Alice,"  he  said,  "Celia  shows  more 
sense  than  you  do.  You  spoil  the  child 
when  you  ought  to  encourage  her." 
Then  to  Celia,  who  had  released  her 
self  from  her  aunt's  embraces,  and  was 
drying  her  own  eyes :  "  I  never  had 
much  sympathy  with  your  father,  but 
he  is  gone  to  his  account,  and  it  is 
wrong  to  speak  ill  of  the  dead.  At  all 
events,  your  mother  was  not  to  blame, 
and  neither  are  you.  I  have  thought 
you  obstinate  sometimes,  disposed  to 
take  your  own  way  more  than  a  young 
person  should  ;  but  you  deserve  credit 
for  the  manner  in  which  you  have  stood 
this  blow  :  it  is  more  than  I  expected  of 
you.  If  you  see  fit  to  teach  so  as  to 
procure  pocket-money  for  your  little  ex 
penses,  I  see  no  objection  ;  I  suppose  it 
would  be  pleasanter  for  you  than  to  take 
the  money  from  me.  But  I  hope  you 
knew,  before  your  aunt  thought  it  neces 
sary  to  tell  you,  that  the  orphan  of  my 
sister-in-law  will  always  find  a  home  and 
a  welcome  in  her  uncle's  house." 

Celia's  acknowledgments  would  have 
been  more  cordial  but  for  the  tone  Hart- 
land  had  assumed  toward  her  aunt.  Yet 
she  was  grateful,  and  did  thank  him, 
adding : 


142 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


"If  my  health  should  fail,  or  if  by 
teaching  I  cannot  earn  enough  to  pay  all 
my  expenses,  then,  dear  uncle,  I  shall 
accept  your  kindness  without  scruple. 
But  \vhile'  I  am  well  and  able  to  work, 
it  is  my  duty  to  pay  my  own  way,  if  I 
can.  And  you  have  always  told  me  that 
I  ought  to  act  up  to  my  highest  ideas 
of  duty." 

"  Well,  Celia,  you  are  a  good  girl,  and 
I  shall  stand  by  you  through  this  matter. 
The  first  thing  to  be  done  is  to  ascertain 
its  exact  legal  bearings.  Did  Cranstoun 
give  you  Mr.  Dunmore's  address  ?" 

"  I  asked  for  it,  and  this  is  his  an 
swer,"  handing  him  the  letter  she  had 
received  the  day  before. 

Hartland  read  it  twice,  his  face  dark 
ening  the  while.  "  The  impertinent 
scoundrel  !"  was  all  the  comment  he 
made ;  then  to  his  son  :  "  Ethan,  step 
down  to  Mr.  Creighton's  and  tell  him  I 
wish  to  see  him,  on  important  business, 
as  early  after  breakfast  to-morrow  as  he 
can  spare  me  an  hour  or  two.  Lucky 
that  he  settled  here  !" 

There  was  a  school-committee  meet 
ing  that  evening,  which  Hartland  had  to 
attend.  Thus,  as  Ethan  had  gone  on 
his  father's  errand  to  Creighton,  the  aunt 
and  niece  were  left  alone. 

Both  had  restrained  themselves,  by  a 
strong  effort,  in  Hartland's  presence ; 
and  the  first  thing  after  he  went  was  to 
have  a  hearty  cry  together,  which  did 
them  good.  Then  Alice  said  :  "  It  was 
very  wrong  in  your  father,  no  doubt, 
Celia  dear ;  but  then  his  first  wife  may 
have  been  a  high,  haughty  dame,  who 
made  no  true  home  for  him  ;  and  it's  so 
hard  to  live  with  a  famished  heart ! 
Then  your  mother  was  a  woman  that 
any  man  might  risk  his  soul  for  ;  and 
they  did  love  one  another  so  dearly ! 
Don't  think  I  excuse  him,  my  darling : 
it  was  a  great  sin,  and  see  what  it  has 
brought  upon  his  child!  But  you  know 
that  I  stayed  at  your  house  for  five  years 
before  I  was  married — five  years  ! — and 
there  was  not  a  day  in  all  that  time  but 
he  made  me  feel  that  it  was  a  pleasure, 
as  well  to  him  as  to  your  mother,  to 
have  me  there.  Me  was  a  sinner,  but 
he  was  very,  very  kind  to  me  !"  Then 


she  looked  at  her  niece,  and  with  a  pas 
sionate  burst  of  tears  she  added  :  «•  And 
oh,  Celia,  Celia,  you  mustn't  be  hard  on 
us  now  !" 

"  Hard  upon  you,  mother  ?" 

« Hard  upon  me.  After  others  had 
made  me  feel  that  I  was  a  burden  to 
them,  I  sat  for  years  an  honored  guest 
at  your  father's  .table,  and  half  an  hour 
ago  his  daughter  told  us — you  never 
thought  how  cruel  that  was,  Celia  ! — you 
told  us  that  you  must  pay  us  if  you  sat 
any  longer  at  mine." 

"But  you  know,  auntie,  what  a  com 
fort,  and  what  a  help  too,  you  always 
were  to  mamma.  You  know  what  care 
you  took  of  me  :  you  were  always  doing 
something  for  me.  And  what  have  I 
been  ?  A  useless  idler  that  has  never 
done  anything  for  anybody.  But  that's 
over,  now." 

"  Never  done  anything  for  anybody  ! 
God  forgive  me  the  thought,  but  I've 
felt — I'm  glad  you  don't  know  how 
often,  Celia  —  that  life  would  not  be 
worth  having  if  it  were  not  for  you — 
and  for  Ethan,  maybe.  You've  been 
the  best  joy  in  my  life — the  greatest 
comfort  I've  had — always,  always,  cruel 
child,  until  now  !" 

When  the  fountains  of  the  great  Deep 
of  feeling  are  broken  up  and  the  windows 
of  the  soul  are  opened,  hidden  things 
come  to  light  upon  which  the  heart  has 
set  jealous  guard  through  half  a  lifetime. 
Celia  was  so  amazed  at  the  glimpse 
which  her  aunt  unwittingly  gave  her  be 
neath  the  placid  flow  of  a  quiet,  regulated 
life  that,  for  a  moment,  she  had  not  a 
word  in  reply  :  then  her  aunt  added  : 

"  But  there's  one  comfort  still :  your 
uncle  will  never  take  money  from  you — 
never  !  He's  hard,  Celia — I  won't  deny 
it— but  he's  just." 

The  girl,  quite  overcome,  was  about 
to  throw  her  arms  around  her  aunt's 
neck,  and  tell  her  she  would  do  anything 
in  the  world  she  wished  if  she  would  not 
cry  so,  when  Ethan  entered. 

He  saw  that  both  the  women  were 
deeply  moved,  and  stopped  as  if,  uncer 
tain  whether  he  was  an  intruder  or  not, 
he  was  about  to  leave  the  room.  Celia 
broke  the  pause  that  ensued. 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


143 


"Sit  down,  Cousin  Ethan,"  she  said. 
"  Let  us  refer  the  matter  to  him,  mother: 
he  is  kind  and  wise." 

Ethan  smiled  :  "  Pray  don't  make  a 
Nestor  of  me,  Celia.  Tell  me  if  I  can 
help  you  :  that's  better." 

" Yes,  you  can  help  us  to  decide — 
can't  he,  mother  ? — what  is  right  to  be 
clone."  And,  taking  her  aunt's  silence 
for  consent,  she  stated  the  case. 

Ethan  reflected  for  a  little  ;  then  he 
asked : 

"  You  are  anxious  not  to  be  a  burden 
on  your  uncle  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Celia,  Celia !"  said  her  aunt,  im 
ploringly. 

« It  is  best  so,  dear  mother,"  said 
Ethan — "best  for  her." 

"  Best  that  my  own  sister's  child 
should  go  on  paying  us  board  and  lodg 
ing  as  if  she  were  a  stranger  ?" 

"  No,  that  is  not  my  opinion." 

Both  Celia  and  Mrs.  Hartland  looked 
up  surprised. 

"  Do  you  happen  to  know,"  Ethan 
asked  Celia,  "  how  much  your  uncle  has 
been  charging  you  for  board  and  lodg 
ing  ?  You  need  not  blush  if  you  have 
been  looking :  it  was  right  you  should." 

"  I  have  been  looking — a  hundred  and 
ninety-five  dollars  a  year." 

What  Ethan  said  next  must,  in  main 
tenance  of  historical  truth,  be  set  clown 
just  as  he  said  it,  even  though  he  lose 
caste  in  consequence.  Deal  not  too 
hardly  with  a  villager's  ignorance,  O 
fair  young  aristocrat,  reading  these 
pages,  perhaps,  in  the  boudoir  of  a 
Fifth  Avenue  palace  !  You  know  bet 
ter  than  to  mistake  a  poor  forty  thou 
sand  dollars  for  riches  ;  but  plain  people, 
with  country  ways,  who  find  that  one  can 
obtain  all  one  needs  or  desires  in  this 
world  for  that  paltry  pittance,  should  be 
forgiven  if  they  rise  not  to  the  level  of 
your  enlightened  views,  and  forget  to 
add  on  the  right  hand  of  the  sorry  sum 
that  additional  cipher  which  would  make 
it  worth  talking  about.  When  Celia 
stated  the  rate  at  which  her  uncle  had 
charged  her  for  maintenance,  Ethan, 
simple  fellow  !  not  at  all  in  jest,  said : 

"  By  a  guardian  who  has  a  rich  heiress 


for  ward  the  charge  is  moderate  enough. 
Good  board  and  lodging  can  scarcely  be 
had  in  Chiskauga  under  four  dollars  a 
week." 

"But  the  dear  child,"  interrupted 
Alice,  "does  not  cost  Mr.  Hartland  half 
that  sum.  Her  chamber  would  stand 
empty  if  she  did  not  occupy  it.  We 
should  not  have  one  servant  the  less. 
We  have  our  own  washing  done  in  the 
house  :  what  matters  it  whether  her's  is 
thrown  in  or  not  ?  Does  the  butcher, 
even,  send  us  one  pound  of  meat  the 
more  on  her  account  ?" 

"Perhaps  not,"  said  Ethan.  "Yet 
an  additional  person  in  a  family  must, 
necessarily,  add  to  the  expense,  were  it 
but  in  the  consumption  of  tea,  coffee, 
sugar,  flour  and  the  like ;  lamplight  also, 
and  many  trifling  incidentals." 

"  While  you're  about  it,  Ethan,"  said 
Alice,  half  amused,  half  indignant,  "  I 
think  you'd  better  take  out  your  pencil 
and  make  a  nice  calculation  how  much 
ought  to  be  charged  against  the  poor 
child  for  wear  and  tear  of  our  carpets 
and  door-mat." 

"  I  have  the  fear  of  Walter  Scott  be 
fore  my  eyes,"  replied  Ethan,  laughing. 
"  Who  has  a  right  to  say  that  Celia  is 
heavier-footed  than  Ellen  Douglas?  *But 
you  know 

0 

'  E'en  the  slight  hare-bell  raised  its  head, 
Elastic  from  her  airy  tread.' 

I'm  a  poor  hand  at  calculating  infinites 
imals." 

"  I'm  glad  you've  so  much  conscience." 

"But,  seriously,  I  don't  think  father 
pays  out  a  hundred  additional  dollars  be 
cause  of  Celia  being  one  of  the  family." 

"  Surely  you  don't  want  Mr.  Hart- 
land  to  make  money  out  of  the  poor 
child,  now  that  all  her  fortune  is  gone." 

"  No,  nor  would  he  consent  to  that  ; 
but  if  Celia  gets  a  good  situation  as 
teacher,  and  finds  that  she  can  afford  it, 
I  think  a  hundred  dollars  a  year  for  her 
maintenance  would  be  a  fair  compromise 
between  uncle  and  niece.  You  are  not 
so  savagely  independent,  I  hope,  Celia, 
as  to  refuse  from  father  and  mother  such 
kindness  as  they  can  offer  you  without 
actual  cost  to  themselves." 


144 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


Celia  smiled:  "Since  I  endorsed  your 
character  for  wisdom,  Cousin  Ethan,  I 
suppose  I  must  accept  your  decision." 

« You  are  as  bad  as  she  is,  Ethan,*1 
said  Alice:  "you  encourage  one  another 
in  foolish  notions." 

But  they  coaxed  her,  at  last,  to  use 
her  influence  with  her  husband  to  allow 
Celia,  besides  furnishing  her  own  pocket- 
money,  to  pay  him  a  hundred  dollars  a 
year  as  her  contribution  to  the  expenses 
of  the  household.  And  so,  at  last,  it 
was  settled,  with  some  grumbling  from 
the  uncle  about  the  niece's  stiff-necked 
unwillingness  to  accept  his  hospitality, 
and  a  condition  attached  that  the  hun 
dred  dollars  was  to  be  received  only  if 
Celia  found  that,  after  clothing  herself 
and  paying  other  incidentals,  she  could 
spare  the  amount  without  any  inconve 
nience  whatever. 

This  was  a  great  satisfaction  to  Celia, 
both  because  it  relieved  her,  on  the  one 
hand,  from  a  painful  consciousness  of 
dependence,  and— truth  to  say— because, 
on  the  other  hand,  it  unexpectedly  light 
ened  the  burden  which  her  new  and  un 
tried  task  of  self-maintenance  imposed. 

Next  morning  Mr.  Hartland,  Sr., 
was  closeted  for  two  hours  with  Eliot 
Creighton. 

Lawyers  learn  to  look  with  a  quiet 
eye  on  the  calamities  of  life.  Surprised, 
deeply  concerned  at  the  unexpected  tid 
ings  Creighton  undoubtedly  was,  but  he 
did  not  take  them  to  heart,  as  the  uncle 
and  guardian  expected. 

« My  first  impression  is,"  he  said, 
« that  it  will  not  be  proper  or  even  safe 
to  give  up  your  ward's  property  until 
compelled  by  law." 

« You  doubt  the  previous  marriage  ? 
Celia  says  her  father's  letters  which 
she  inspected  were  conclusive  on  that 
point." 

"  That  may  be  :  Cranstoun  can  read 
ily  prove  it  to  us  if  it  is  so.  But  there 
are  questions  back  of  that.  There  may 
have  been  a  will." 

"Mrs.  Pembroke*  knew  of  none. 
None,  of  course,  was  offered  for  probate, 
either  in  this  county  or  in  Philadelphia, 
where  part  of  Celia's  property  lies." 


" Still,  there  may  have  been  a  will : 
possibly  left  in  Cranstoun's  hands,  and — 
I  beg  his  pardon  if  I  suspect  him  unjustly 
— suppressed." 

'  But  why  not  shown  by  Pembroke  to 
his  wife  during  his  lifetime  ?" 

"  He  may  have  been  living  under  an 
assumed  name.  Those  who  risk  the 
punishment  of  bigamy  generally  take  that 
precaution  against  detection.  He  would, 
of  course,  be  unwilling  to  show  Mrs. 
Pembroke  a  will  executed  under  his  real 
name  ;  and  Cranstoun,  for  his  own  pur 
poses,  may  have  persuaded  him  that  a 
will  signed  by  him  as  Frederick  Pem 
broke  would  be  valueless." 

"  If  your  conjecture  is  right,  such  a 
document  would  be  worthless,  would  it 
not  ?" 

«  No.  One  not  versed  in  law,  like 
Mr.  Pembroke,  would  be  likely  to  sup 
pose  so.  But  a  will  is  valid  if  the 
identity  of  the  signer  with  the  person 
entitled  to  dispose  of  the  property  be 
established." 

"Yet  if  such  a  will  has  been  sup 
pressed  or  destroyed,  of  what  avail  that 
it  was  executed  ?" 

"It  must  have  been  witnessed,  and 
we  may  discover  by  whom  ?" 

«  By  Cranstoun  himself,  perhaps  ?" 
"  Likely  enough  ;    but    in  this   State 
two  witnesses  are  required." 

"If  there  was  a  prior  marriage,  and 
if  no  will  can  be  found,  then,  I  sup 
pose,  the  English  heir-at-law  takes  the 
property." 

«  The  statute  law  of  Ohio,  unfortunate 
ly  for  Miss  Pembroke,  permits  an  alien 
to  inherit  real  estate  as  well  as  personal 
property  ;  but  there  are  law-points  in 
volved  in  your  question  which  I  must 
study  before  I  can  reply  to  it.  The  cruel 
rule  of  the  Common  Law  is  that  one  born 
out  of  wedlock  is  films  nullius  —  no 
body's  child  —  and  as  such  can  inherit 
neither  the  property  of  his  father  nor— 
strange  to  say  !— of  his  mother.  Our 
statute  law  remedies  the  latter  injus 
tice.  Under  what  circumstances  —  in 
deed  whether  at  all  — it  affords  relief 
under  the  former  I  cannot  yet  say.  never 
having  had  occasion  to  examine  that 
point.  Indeed,  I  am  not  as  familiar  with 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


J45 


the  Ohio  statutes  as  I  ought  to  be.  I 
studied  law  chiefly  i.i  Pennsylvania 
Did  Cranstoun  speak  positively  on  the 
subject  ?" 

"  He  told  Celia  that,  being  illegitimate, 
she  could  not  inherit  a  farthing  of  her 
father's  property." 

Creighton  looked  grave.  «  Cranstoun 
is  too  shrewd,"  he  said  after  a  pause, 
"  to  make  such  an  assertion  except  on 
plausible  authority  ;  and  he  is  doubtless 
far  better  acquainted  with  the  law  of 
this  State,  and  the  decisions  under  it, 
than  I  am.  With  so  much  depending 
on  it  under  his  rascally  calculation  of 
profit  to  himself  as  informer,  he  has,  in 
all  probability,  sifted  the  matter  to  the 
bottom.  To  be  frank  with  you,  I  don't 
like  the  look  of  it ;  yet  I  am  not  entirely 
convinced  even  of  Miss  Pembroke's 
illegitimacy." 

"  It  surely  must  be,  if  her  father  was 
a  bigamist." 

"  Not  necessarily.  Under  the  old 
Spanish  law,  once  prevalent  in  Florida 
and  Texas,  as  I  happen  to  know,  she 
would  have  been  legitimate." 

«'  But  our  laws  are  not  so  lax.  With 
a  former  wife  alive,  the  marriage  of  Mrs. 
Pembroke  must  have  been  null  and 
void." 

"  Yes  ;  at  all  events  at  the  time  it  was 
solemnized,  and  probably  as  long  as  it 
lasted.  The  rest  seems  a  natural  de 
duction.  The  case  is  probably  against 
us  ;  and  I  beg  of  you  not  to  mention  to 
Miss  Celia  the  doubts  I  have  expressed, 
which  may  be  entirely  without  founda 
tion.  It  would  be  cruel  to  raise  hopes 
only  to  be  disappointed.  How  does  she 
stand  this  ?" 

"  The  disgrace  of  her  birth  affects  her 
seriously.  Otherwise,  I  must  say,  she 
bears  it  well.  She  is  gone  this  morning 
to  talk  to  Miss  Ethelridge  about  a  part 
nership  in  her  school.  And  the  gypsy 
is  too  proud  to  stay  in  her  uncle's  house 
without  paying  for  it." 

Creighton's  face  brightened.  "I  was 
not  deceived  in  thinking  there  was  cha 
racter  beneath  that  soft  exterior." 

"  She  is  obstinate  enough,  certainly." 
"  She  will  come  out  all  right,  even  if 
we  are  beaten,  Mr.  Hartland  :   you  will 
10 


sec.     But  if  you  think  fit  to  entrust  the 
case  to  me — " 

"  That  ib  what  I  have  been  thinking 
about." 

"  You  do  me  honor.  It  is  a  great  re 
sponsibility  for  one  so  young  in  the  pro 
fession  as  myself.  Yet  it  will  go  hard 
but  I  shall  deserve  your  confidence.  If 
industry  and  painstaking  may  avail,  we 
shall  not  be  defeated.  And  this  at  least 
I  may  promise  you— that  I  will  work  up 
the  case  as  faithfully  as  if  the  young 
.ady  were  my  own  sister,  as  faithfully  as 
if  life  and  death  were  on  the  issue." 

SvQlf-confidence  breeds  confidence  in 
others,  as  young  and  small  and  slender 
General  Bonaparte,  taking  command  of 
the  army  of  Italy,  shiningly  proved. 
Hartland  agreed  with  Creighton  on  poli 
tics,  and  found  in  him  a  patient  and  in 
terested  listener  when  speaking  on  nat 
ural  history  and  expatiating  on  his 
(Hartland's)  favorite  pursuits.  On  the 
other  hand,  the  young  man  often  startled 
him,  and  sometimes  shocked  his  con 
servative  proclivities,  by  coming  out  with 
some  daring  i-MclIcalisrn  ;  so  that  he  had 
hesitated  a  little  about  putting  his  ward's 
interests  in  his  hands.  But  Creighton's 
bold  assurance  awoke  faith  in  his  pow 
ers  as  an  advocate,  and  Hartland  hes 
itated  no  longer. 

"  You  shall  have  the  management  of 
the  case,  at  all  events,"  he  said  ;  «  and 
if  you  desire  to  have  other  counsel  as 
sociated  with  you,  let  me  know." 


CHAPTER   XXVI. 

JEAN'S  SERVICES  NOT  NEEDED. 

"And  one,  in  whom  all  evil  fancies  clung 
Like  serpent-eggs  together,  laughingly 
Would  hint  at  worse  in  either." 

TENNYSON'S  Enoch  Ardtn. 

"  No,  Miss  Celia— not  jist  exactly  at 
lome.  Miss  Ellinor  went  out  to  Bettv 
Carson's  on  some  business  for  the  mad"- 
ame.  A  half  hour  she  said  she'd  be 
gone,  and  it's  mor'n  that  already.  Won't 
ye  step  into  the  parlor  ?" 

*«Yes,  Nelly,  I'll  wait  for  her;  but 
don't  tell  Madame  Meyrac  I'm  here,  I 
•mow  she's  always  busy  at  this  hour." 


146 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


Beyond  the  parlor  was  a  small  exten 
sion-room,  used  by  the  doctor  as  office 
and  library.  The  door  that  communi 
cated  with  it  standing  open,  so  that  Celia 
saw  it  was  vacant,  she  sauntered  thither 
in  an  absent  mood  and  sat  down  by  an 
eastern  window,  looking  out  on  the  lake ; 
for  Dr.  Meyrac's  dwelling  was  on  the 
eastern  edge  of  the  village,  not  far  from 
the  Elm  Walk.  At  another  time  Celia 
would  have  rejoiced  in  that  sunny  spring 
morning  and  admired  the  graceful  little 
sail-boat  that  was  just  leaving  the  wharf. 
But  her  mind  was  preoccupied,  and  the 
bright  scene  was  lost  upon  her.  Busi 
ness  was  in  her  thoughts.  She  was  con 
gratulating  herself  that  this  was  Satur 
day,  and  that  she  would  probaby  find  her 
friend  at  leisure  for  a  long  talk.  Me 
chanically  she  picked  up  and  opened  a 
book  from  a  small  table  that  stood  near. 
It  was  that  wonderful  story  of  Jane 
Eyre,  instinct  with  pathos  drawn  from 
the  very  depths  of  sorrow  ;  and  she  had 
opened  it  at  the  incident  of  the  wedding 
in  the  dim  village  church,  so  nearly 
solemnized,  by  such  startling  disclosure 
interrupted.  "  And  she  married  him, 
after  all,"  the  girl  thought.  "  And  I  re 
member  I  was  so  much  afraid  she  would 
marry  that  handsome,  pious  St.  John  ; 
and  so  glad  when  she  found  Rochester, 
blind  and  lame,  in  that  gloomy  parlor. 
Ought  she  to  have  kept  away  from  him  ? 
Ought  she  to  have  married  the  mission 
ary  ?"  Her  thoughts  were  in  a  maze, 
and  she  dipped  into  the  absorbing  vol 
ume,  reading  page  after  page,  till  she 
was  interrupted  by  voices  in  the  adjoin 
ing  room.  It  was  Madame  Meyrac  and 
some  one  who  had  entered  with  her,  un 
noticed  by  Celia  in  her  abstraction.  A 
voice  said  : 

«  It  would  be  a  great  accommodation, 
madame,  if  you  could  give  me  up  Betty 
for  Monday.  I  have  friends  coming 
from  Mount  Sharon  on  Wednesday,  and 
I  must  absolutely  get  through  house- 
cleaning  before  they  come." 

How  that  harsh,  sharp  voice  grated 
on  Celia's  ear !  Well  she  knew  who 
was  the  speaker  !  She  could  not  make 
up  her  mind  to  encounter  her  just  then  ; 
and  so,  unwilling  to  become  privy  to 


a  conversation  not  intended  for  her  ear, 
she  stepped  lightly  across  the  library, 
intending  to  go  up  to  Ellinor's  room. 
But  the  door  that  opened  on  the  passage 
was  locked  outside  ;  so  that  she  was 
fain  to  remain  a  prisoner.  "It  can  only 
be  for  a  few  moments,"  she  thought  as 
she  reseated  herself;  "and  it  is  a  mere 
matter  of  every-day  business." 

"  I  much  grieve,  Madame  Volfgang," 
was  what  she  heard  next.  "  Ah,  if  the 
voman  Carson  might  aid  me  Tuesday, 
or,  veil,  Vendesday,  very  good.  But 
no,  she  has  said  me  she  is  retained  for 
these  days  there  by  Madame  Hartland." 

"  I  don't  think  sister  Hartland  cares 
about  having  her  house  cleaned  this 
week.  I  could  speak  to  her  about  it. 
She  has  something  else  to  think  of— 
something  not  very  pleasant." 

"  Is  monsieur  ill  ?  He  has  not  sent 
to  seek- my  husband." 

"  My  brother  is  not  ill,  but  in  great 
trouble." 

«  I  am  much  afflicted  to  hear  it." 

"  Mrs.  Hartland's  sister  made  a  pretty 
mess  of  it  when  she  married  Frederick 
Pembroke." 

"  A  praty  mase  !  Vat  is  happen  ? 
He  is  dead,  there  are  ten,  eleven  years — 
is  he  not  ?" 

"  When  Eliza  married  him  he  had 
another  wife  living  in  England." 

«  My  God  !  vat  you  tell  me  ?" 

"It  was  no  marriage  at  all.  She  was 
no  more  his  wife  than  you  or  I." 

"Ah,  vat  unhappy  ting!  And  that 
charmante  Ce1ie  !  Poor  litel  mignonne  ! 
She  is  not — she  is  one — " 

"A  bastard,  of  course,  and  not  en 
titled  to  a  cent  of  her  father's  property.' 

"  Is  it  that  the  first  vife  lives  still  ?" 

"  No :  she  died  three  years  before 
her  husband  ;  but  that's  of  no  conse 
quence." 

"  Your  law  says  it  so  ?  Ve  have 
much  better  in  our  Code  Civile.  If  cle 
second  vife  know  noting  and  marry  all 
of  good  faith,  then  if  de  first  vife  come 
to  die,  de  children  of  de  oder  can  have 
de  goods — vat  you  call  propertay." 

"  It's  just  as  likely  as  not  that  Mrs. 
Pembroke  knew  it  all  the  time.  Of 
course  she  kept  the  secret.  She  was 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


dying  to  have  him  before  he  married  her. 
Everybody  could  see  that." 

"  But  if  de  poor  soul  did  truly  not 
know  anyting  ?" 

"  Whose  fault  was  that  ?  It  was  her 
business  to  find  out  whether  he  was 
married  or  not  before  she  took  him;  but 
she  didn't  care  if  she  was  his  kept  mis 
tress.  It  served  her  just  right." 

Celia  choked  down  her  sobs,  pride 
coming  to  her  aid.  She  was  terribly 
afraid  now  of  being  detected.  The  next 
words  she  heard  were  : 

"  You  are  one  very  hard  voman." 

"  Hard  !  I  see  no  hardship  in  it. 
That  mawkish  fop  of  a  Pembroke  was  a 
felon,  yet  he  wasn't  sent  to  hard  labor 
in  the  penitentiary — the  more's  the  pity: 
you  won't  deny  tha4:  the  bigamist  de 
served  it.  Well,  thf,  daughter  will  suffer 
for  it,  that's  one  comfort." 

«  Madame  Volfgang — " 

"  Mr.  Cranstoun  told  me  that  just  such 
a  case  as  hers  had  lately  been  decided — 
I  forget  in  what  county  of  this  State — 
and  not  a  penny  were  the  bastards  al 
lowed  to  inherit.  The  saucy  minx  is  a 
beggar." 

"  I  vill  not  hear — " 

"  There's  no  need  for  my  brother  to 
trouble  himself  about  John  Mowbray 
now.  The  Mowbrays  stand  on  their 
dignity,  and  don't  marry  beggars.  Ellen 
Tyler  always  was  a  prettier  girl  than  that 
whey-face,  and  now  she's  a  far  better 
match.  Her  mother  was  an  honest  mar 
ried  woman,  and  the  old  miller  can  spare 
a  son-in-law  three  or  four  thousand  hard 
dollars  if  he  likes  him.  The  Pembroke 
girl  hasn't  a  ghost  of  a  chance." 

"  Madame  Volfgang  !" 

Such  a  menace  was  there  in  the  tone 
that  Celia,  beaten  down  as  her  very  soul 
had  been  by  that  malignant  outburst  of 
abuse,  started  to  her  feet,  expecting  a 
blow  to  follow  the  words.  She  need  not 
have  feared. 

"  Madame  Volfgang  !  I  have  de  honor 
to  remind  you  dat  Mademoiselle  Ce'lie  is 
my  vary  excellent  friend.  I  did  tell  you 
I  vould  not  hear,  but  you  speak,  speak, 
ever  more.  Jean  is  digging  in  my  gar 
den  at  dis  moment — it  is  a  moch  strong 
young  man,  is  Jean— and  what  I  sav  to 


him,  he  do  it.  It  vill  make  talk  de 
world  to  turn  some  lady  out  of  my  house. 
But  what  to  do  ?  If  you  say  only  one 
litel  vord  more,  I  vill  make  seek  Jean, 
and  he  shall  have  you  in  his  arms,  and 
I  vill  make  him  descend  the  front  steps 
and  set  you  down  outside  de  litel  door 
of  de  garden,  in  de  street :  den  I  shall 
say  you,  *  Good-morning,  madame  !'  " 

What  a  world  is  this  !  —  tragedy  one 
moment,  comedy  the  next.  The  hot 
tears  were  already  dry  on  Celia's  cheeks  : 
she  saw,  in  imagination,  the  stout  young 
Frenchman  picking  up,  at  his  mistress' 
bidding,  Mrs.  Wolfgang's  solid  weight 
of  a  hundred  and  sixty  or  seventy  pounds. 
But  his  prowess  was  not  called  into  re 
quisition.  The  lady  shook  with  rage, 
but  she  moved  quickly  to  the  door  with 
out  a  word.  Celia  saw  Madame  Meyrac 
sweep  out  after  her  with  an  air  that 
would  have  graced  the  stage,  and  heard 
her  say,  as  Mrs.  Wolfgang  stepped  out 
on  the  gravel  walk :  « Ah,  madame 
shows  herself  sage  at  de  last.  Dat  is 
much  better,  for  vy  should  one  make 
talk  the  world  ?"  Then  Celia  heard  her 
muttering  to  herself,  as  she  passed  up 
stairs  to  her  domestic  duties :  « Dieu 
mercie,  elle  s'est  en  alle  a  la  fin,  cette 
diablesse-la!"* 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 
A.   GLIMPSE   INTO   A   LIFE. 

"  Work — work — work, 
Till  the  brain  begins  to  swim  ; 

Work — work — work, 
Till  the  eyes  are  heavy  and  dim  !" 

HOOD. 

CELIA  ascended  to  her  friend's  cham 
ber,  and  ten  minutes  afterward  Ellinor 
entered.  She  went  up  to  Celia  without 
a  word,  kissed  her  tenderly,  and  then, 
the  tears  rising  to  her  eyes,  passed  her 
hand  caressingly  over  the  auburn  tresses. 

"  Ah  !  you  know  all  ?"  said  Celia. 

"  My  darling,  yes — from  Betty  Carson 
this  morning." 

"  All  the  world  knows  my  disgrace 
already !"  was  the  poor  girl's  bitter 
thought. 

*  "  Thank  God,  she's  gone  at  last,  that  she-devil !" 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


Ellinor  added : 

"That  odious  Mrs.  Wolfgang  had 
been  trying  to  poison  the  poor  creature's 
mind  against  you  :  but  Betty  —  brave 
soul  I  —  is  a  champion  of  yours.  She 
washed  for  your  family*  it  seems,  when 
you  were  a  mere  child,  and  your  father 
and  mother  seem  to  have  been  objects 
of  her  veneration/' 

"  Dear,  good  Betty  !"  —  her  eyes  fill- 
ins:  with  tears. 

••  She  told  me  what  an  angel  of  good 
ness  your  father  had  been  to  her  when 
her  children  were  sick  and  her  husband 
raving  with  delirium  tremens." 

"Ah,  if  others  could  feel  so  about 
him  !" 

"Your  father's  misconduct  is  the 
worst  blow.  Is  it  not,  little  pet?" 

"  I  can't  bear  to  think  of  it,  Ellie  !" 
shuddering  as  she  said  it. 

"  Do  you  doubt  that  he  repented  of 
his  misdeed  !" 

"No,  indeed,  no,"  eagerly.  "As  I 
remember  dear  papa,  sad,  depressed,  like 
one  bearing  a  secret  grief,  his  life  with 
mamma  must  have  been  one  long 
repentance." 

"Yet  you  mourn  as  without  hope. 
Do  you  remember  the  words  of  One 
who  needed  no  forgiveness  himself, 
touching  the  joy  in  heaven  over  one  sin 
ner  that  repenteth  ?  Joy,  Celia— joy  be 
cause  of  the  repentance,  not  sorrow  be 
cause  of  the  sin.  How  often  I  have 
thought  of  that !" 

"  Papa  was  a  good  man,  Ellie :  I 
wish  you  had  known  him." 

Ellinor  took  down  a  small  volume 
from  a  book-shelf.  "  I  like  •>  Vivien,'  " 
she  said,  as  she  turned  the  leaves  over, 
"  less  than  any  other  of  the  Jtfv/st  yet 
it  has  some  of  the  finest  lines  Tennyson 
ever  wrote.  Here,  for  example  : 

'  The  sin  that  practice  burns  into  the  blood. 
And  not  the  one  dark  hour  which  brings  remorse 
Wiil  brand  us,  after,  of  whose  fold  we  be.'  " 

«  Dear  Ellie  !  No  one  like  you  to  come 
to,  when  one  is  miserable  and  needs  to 
be  comforted  !  You  are  merciful." 

"  Am  I  ?"  —  a  sudden,  solemn  look 
shadowing  her  face — ••  am  I  ?  Thanl> 
God  !  The  merciful,  we  are  told,  shal 
obtain  mercy." 


The  two  girls  sat  silent  for  a  minute 
jr  two  :  then  Celia  took  one  of  Ellinor's 
hands  in  both  hers,  and  the  expressive 
features,  as  she  looked  up  to  them, 
brightened  again.  "I  came  to  talk  to 
you  about  business,  Ellie  dear,  but  I 
lave  almost  lost  heart.  That  Mrs. 
Wolfgang  was  here  this  morning,  and  I 
leard — I  could  not  help  hearing  —  oh 
such  terrible  things  !  The  full  sense  of 
my  position  never  came  home  to  me  be 
fore.  Name,  fortune,  good  repute,  all 
lost  !  Everything,  everything  gone  !" 

"  Everything  ?     There  are  these  little 
dimpled  'hands   left—"   kissing   one   of 
them  —  "and   they  have    not    forgotten 
their  cunning.     The  eyes  are  somewhat 
dimmed,  I  admit,  but  they  can  still  read 
Liszt's  music  at  a  glance,  and  win  hearts 
besides,    provided    they   are   werth    the 
winning.      I    hear   the   very   voice    that 
charmed  us  all — and  Mr.  Creighton  es 
pecially—in    Schubert's    <  Ave     Maria,' 
the  other  night.     These  golden  curls  are 
the  same  I  used  to  admire,  and  this  little 
brain  beneath    them   has  just  as   much 
French   and    German   and    history  and 
logic  and  literature,  and  just  as  many 
kind  thoughts  and  generous  sentiments, 
stowed  away  in  its  delicate  cells,  as  there 
were  there  a  week  ago."    The  look  from 
those  brilliant  eyes  spoke  deep  affection 
more  strongly  even  than  the  words  as 
Ellinor  proce'eded:    "Everything  gone! 
Why  every  bit  of  my  own  precious  Celia, 
who*  stole'my  heart  in  spite  of  all  I  could 
do  to  keep  it,  is  here  still.     That  money, 
if  //  be  gone,  was  no  part  of  her.     As 
little  any  name  the  law  may  assign  her. 
Like  Juliet's  rose,  she  is  just  as  sweet 
under  one  as  another.    Young  girls  will 
change  their  names,  you  know,  and  do 
their  dearest  friends  think  the  less  of 
them  for  that  ?" 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  don't  despise  me." 
"  Naughty  child'!  What  sort  of  love  is 
it  you  give  me  credit  for  ?  A  weed,  that 
has  root  among  dollars  and  titles,  and 
withers  when  these  are  plucked  up  ?  Do 
you  take  me  for  one  of  those  who  mis 
take  money  or  a  name  for  the  chief  part 
of  that  •  noblest  work  of  God'  that  Pope 
talks  about  ?  3  'on  are  unmerciful.  Come, 
Celia,  I'm  not  so  bad  as  that :  tell  me 


BEYOND    THE   BREAKERS. 


149 


what  business  it  was  you  had  almost  lost 
heart  to  talk  to  me  about." 

Celia  disclosed  her  plans.  At  first 
Ellinor  listened  eagerly,  well  pleased 
it  seemed.  Then,  as  if  some  painful 
thought  had  swept  over  her,  her  face 
saddened  and  her  manner  betrayed  ner 
vous  excitement. 

"It  does  not  suit  you,  dear:  never 
mind,"  said  Celia,  struggling  bravely  to 
conceal  sad  disappointment. 

Ellinor's  quick  apprehension  detected 
the  feeling  instantly.  «  Dear,  good 
Celia!"  she  said  after  a  moment's  pause, 
"it  is  cruel  to  say  a  word  to  you  of  my 
misfortunes  when  you  are  overtasked  by 
your  own.  But  between  the  closest 
friends  there  should  be  the  most  scrupu 
lous  good  faith  in  matters  of  business." 
Then  she  hesitated,  adding,  at  last : 
"  Did  you  ever  notice  anything  peculiar 
about  my  eyes  ?" 

"  Never — "  bewildered  by  the  sudden 
question — "never,  except  that  I  think 
they  are  love-eyes,  that  I  should  have 
lost  my  heart  to  if  I  had  been  a  man." 

"They  told  you  the  truth,  at  all 
events,"  faintly  smiling,  "yet  they  are 
not  trustworthy  eyes,  for  all  that." 

"Good  Heavens!  It  can't  be,  Elli 
nor — "  and  Celia  turned  deadly  pale. 

"You  have  guessed  it.  If  I  were  to 
accept  your  offer,  you  might  have  a  blind 
partner  on  your  hands  one  of  these 
days." 

When  Cranstoun  came  out  with  that 
terrible  announcement :  "  Your  father 
had  a  wife  living  in  England."  it  was 
scarcely  a  greater  blow  to  Celia  than 
this.  She  gazed  at  her  friend,  unable 
at  first  to  utter  a  single  word.  Then 
she  fell  on  her  neck,  sobbing,  "Ellie, 
Ellie!" 

Miss  Ethelridge  had  spoken  quite 
calmly,  but  under  this  uncontrollable 
burst  of  sympathy  her  equanimity  also 
gave  way. 

Celia  was  the  first  who  broke  silence : 
"Don't  cry,  darling.  I'll  try  to  be  as 
brave  as  you.  But  your  eyes — you  see 
.me,  Ellie  ?" 

"  Yes,  little  pet,  quite  well." 

"Your  eyes  are  weak,  that  is  all  ?" 

"  Come  "on  this  sofa,  beside  me  ;"  and 


she  put  one  arm  round  her  and  took  a 
hand  in  hers.  "  I  said  you  may  have 
a  blind  partner.  Till  darkness  comes 
there  is  hope.  God  may  spare  me  this, 
but  I  do  not  think  it  is  His  will." 
"  Is  it  only  a  presentiment,  Ellie  ?" 
"  No.  I  must  tell  you  a  little  bit  out 
of  a  sad,  sad  story.  I  hope  I  was  not 
bad — though  I  sometimes  think  I  was — 
but  I  never  intended  to  be,  or  I  would 
not  have  let  you  love  me,  Celia.  I  was 
in  cruel  hands — cruel  and  powerful 
hands"  —  Celia  felt  her  shudder  con 
vulsively —  "and  at  times  I  scarcely 
knew  what  I  did  or  what  I  ought  to  do. 
I  promised  to  tell  you  all  about  it  some 
day,  and  I  will,  but  not  now.  I  left  my 
friends  —  what  the  world  called  so,  I 
mean.  I  dare  say  they  considered  me 
dishonored ;  and  they  would  probably 
disown  me  if  I  showed  my  face  among 
them  again,  which  I  never  will — God  be 
my  witness  ! — never  will.  I'm  afraid  I 
thought  of  doing  a  very  wrong  thing,  for 
when  one  is  forsaken -by  all  tht  world, 
there's  such  a  temptation  to  slip  out  of 
it.  But  when  all  the  world  forsook  me, 
God  sent — "  she  hesitated.  "  I  think 
there  are  those  on  this  earth  who  will  be 
angels  in  the  next  world  ;  and  some  of 
them  act  an  angel's  part  here.  Such  an 
one  —  God  bless  him  !  as  He  surely 
will — saved  me  from  myself,  and  found 
for  me  such  home  as  was  within  his 
power.  I  accepted  life  from  him  :  I 
could  not  accept  money.  To  preserve 
the  life  he  rescued,  I  had  to  win  my 
daily  bread.  I  am  usually  considered  a 
skillful  needlewoman,  but  others  had  to 
make  profit  of  my  labor.  The  miserable 
pittance  they  left  me — well,  it  is  the  fate 
of  thousands  :  I  was  not  worse  off  than 
they.  You  know  that  fearful  'Song  of 
the  Shirt,'  Celia  :  I  hardly  dare  read  it 
now:  it  terrifies  me.  I  don't  think  the 
English  language  was  ever  wrought  into 
another  such  picture  :  it  conjures  phan 
toms  that  haunt' me  still,  yet  it  scarcely 
exaggerates  what  was  my  lot.  The  sum 
mers  earliest  light  often  found  me  bend 
ing  over  my  work.  Perhaps  even  such 
labor  as  that  would  not  have  seriously 
injured  my  eyes,  for  they  were  strong, 
had  it  not  been — you  mustn't  cry,  Celia 


'53 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


dear :  nothing  so  weakens  the  eyes  as 
tears." 

"  But  at  last  ?"  was  all   Celia  could 
say. 

"  At  last,  when  sight  had  almost 
failed,  an  old  gentleman — he  was  a  Qua 
ker  and  from  your  country — found  me 
out.  He  spoke  to  me  of  America,  of 
green  fields  and  summer  skies  in  a  land 
where  labor  was  honored  and  brought 
fair  reward.  Even  then,  though  his 
words  were  like  tidings  from  Paradise, 
my  pride  revolted  against  pecuniary  ob 
ligation.  Then  he  spoke  to  me  as  one 
of  Christ's  apostles  might  have  spoken  : 
» Pride  is  sinful  and  goes  before  destruc 
tion  :  suicide  is  a  crime.  In  another 
month  thee  will  probably  be  quite  blind : 
then  thee  will  die  a  miserable  death. 
Thee  has  no  right  thus  to  cast  life  away, 
for  thee  may  employ  it  still  to  benefit, 
maybe  to  bless,  our  fellow-creatures. 
Thee  may  be  able  to  repay  them  a  hun 
dredfold  the  trifle  I  offer  thee.'  " 
«  Ah,  Ellie,  how  true  that  was  !" 
«  I  dared  not  reply  to  it.  I  accepted 
money  enough  to  pay  for  a  second-class 
passage  across  the  Atlantic.  In  Phila 
delphia  I  remained  six  months  in  the 
house  of  a  charming  old  lady,  sister  of 
rny  benefactor,  as  governess  to  her  niece. 
An  eminent  oculist  restored  comparative 
strength  to  my  eyes,  but  warned  me 
against  ever  again  taxing  them  severely, 
especially  by  artificial  light,  and  strongly 
recommended  country  air  and  exercise. 
Mr.  Williams— that  was  the  good  man's 
name — gave  me  a  letter  of  introduction 
to  Mr.  Sydenham ;  and  here  too,  I 
think,  as  in  that  London  garret,  I  have 
been  ministered  to  by  angels  unawares." 
"  But  your  eyes,  Ellie— they  are  beau-' 
tiful  as  they  can  be.  Surely  the  clanger 
is  past.  Do  they  pain  you  ?" 

"  Don't  grieve,  dear,  but  I  have  no 
right  to  conceal  the  truth  from  you. 
They  have  been  gradually  failing — more, 
I  think,  this  year  than  ever  before.  I 
must  use  them  a  good  deal,  sometimes 
by  lamplight.  But  they  do  not  pain  me 
much." 

«  What  does  Dr.  Meyrac  say  ?" 
"  He    is   a  faithful  friend  and  speaks 
the  truth.    What  a  sigh  was  that !    Don't 


trouble  yourself  about  me,  pooi  child. 
You  have  burden  enough.  Yon  have 
your  own  affairs — your  own  way  to  make. 
You  may  find  some  one  else  as  a  part 
ner  ;  or  perhaps  —  who  knows,  Celia, 
whether  it  may  not  be  all  for  the  best 
that  I  should  become  blind  and  give 
up  school  ?  Somebody  must  take  my 
place." 

«  Hush,  Ellie  !  I  want  to  talk  to  you 
about  something  else." 

«  Well,  dear  ?" 

«  Had  you  ever  a  sister  ?" 

«  Never." 

"  Nor  a  brother  ?" 

"  Nor  a  brother.   I  was  an  only  child." 

«  So  was  I.  Would  you  like  to  have 
a  sister,  Ellie  ?" 

Such  a  look  of  love  !  but  not  a  word 
in  reply  ;  and  Celia  went  on  :  "I  need 
a  sister  ;  and  then — you  and  Dr.  Meyrac 
may  both  be  wrong  ;  God  may  not  in 
tend  that  you  should  suffer  this.  But  if 
He  does,  Ellie — if  He  does — you  will 
need  a  sister,  too."  And  with  that  she 
threw  her  arms  round  her  friend's  neck, 
and  after  a  time  all  that  she  felt  and  all 
that  she  meant  came  home  to  Ellinor — 
warm  kisses  say  so  much  more  than 
words. 

After  they  had  become  a  little  more 
calm,  Celia  spoke  again  :  "  I  have  com 
plained  for  such  small  cause  :  I  have  so 
little  fortitude  in  suffering.  I  am  a  poor, 
weak  creature  compared  with  you,  Ellie 
— little  worth  your  love  except  because 
I  love  you  so  ;  but  then  you  have  no 
other  sister  ;  and  besides  —  there  is  a 
secret  I  must  tell  you,  Ellie." 
«  Well,  darling  child  ?" 
«  Do  you  believe  in  magnetism — hu 
man  magnetism,  I  mean  ?" 

Ellinor  started  with  an  expression  al 
most  of  terror,  but  she  controlled  her 
self,  answering  calmly,  "Yes,  I  do  be 
lieve  in  it." 

"Because  —  you  will  scarcely  credit 
me,  Ellie — but  when  you  first  came  this 
morning  I  had  been  trembling  all  over : 
that  woman's  venomous  words  had  got 
hold  of  me,  so  that  I  was  scarcely  my 
self.  I  think  my  nerves  were  shattered : 
I  could  not  keep  my  hands  still,  and 
when  you  opened  the  door  I  could  hard- 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS, 


ly  restrain  a  scream.  But  when  you 
came  up  to  me  and  kissed  me,  and  passed 
a  hand  over  my  hair,  I  felt  quieter  and 
able  to  sit  still.  Then,  afterward,  when 
you  bid  me  come  and  sit  beside  you  on 
the  sofa,  and  put  your  arm  round  me 
and  took  my  hand  in  yours,  it  all  grad 
ually  passed  away  —  the  fear,  the  ner 
vousness,  the  restlessness :  even  that 
odious  vituperation  seemed  to  drop  off 
from  me  like  some  soiled  garment,  and 
I  began  to  feel  stronger,  braver,  more 
hopeful,  and  then,  after  a  time,  almost 
like  a  soothed  child  that  could  go  to 
sleep  in  your  arms.  I  have  often  felt 
something  of  the  kind  before  when  I  was 
near  y-ju,  but  never  anything  like  that 
dreamy  luxury  of  to-day.  I  know  this 
must  all  seem  fanciful  to  you,  ridiculous 
perhaps — " 

«  Far  from  it,  dear  child.  It  is  real." 
"  Then  see,  Ellie  !  For  my  sake  we 
ought  to  be  sisters  and  partners,  so  that 
I  can  be  often  with  you.  I  am  weak, 
and  through  you  I  gain  strength  ;  I  am 
nervous  and  irritable,  and  near  you  I 
find  solace  and  peace.  Then  after  a 
time,  maybe,  I  may  get  to  be  better 
worth  living  with,  more  like  you — brave, 
energetic,  self-possessed.  You'll  never 
find  a  sister  you  can  do  so  much  good 
to,  Ellie,  nor  one  that  will  honor  and 
love  you  more.  Will  you  have  me,  dar 
ling,  just  as  I  am  ?" 


«  Just  as  you  are  ?  —  God  forgive  me, 
if  I  am  selfish  in  this — yes,  Celia,  just  as 
you  are." 

There  are  many  more  estimable  and 
more  meritorious  people  in  this  world 
than  Celia  Pembroke  ;  but  toward  those 
she  loved  there  was  a  witchery  about 
her  that  few  hearts,  save  very  cold  ones, 
.could  resist.  It  almost  silenced  Elli- 
nor's  misgivings,  and  before  evening 
partnership  articles  between  the  two 
orphans  were  agreed  upon. 

Before  leaving  Madame  Meyrac's, 
Celia  took  an  opportunity  of  apologi/ing 
to  that  lady  for  having  been  an  unwilling 
listener  to  Mrs.  Wolfgang's  tirade,  speak 
ing  in  French,  as  she  always  did  to  her. 

"  Ah,  poor  little  one  !"  replied  mad- 
ame,  sympathetically,  "you  heard  it, 
then  ?  It  afflicts  me  that  you  should 
have  been  so  cruelly  wounded.  But 
what  would  you  have  ?  That  sort  of 
creature  has  neither  sense  nor  common 
decency.  Without  these,  one  becomes 
brutal.  Dogs  will  bite  and  cats  scratch. 
One  can  guarantee  one's  self  only  by  se 
lecting  for  associates  bipeds  and  quad 
rupeds  that  are  too  well  bred  to  do 
either.  For  the  rest,  I  owe  to  you  much, 
my  dear  :  through  you  I  shall  obtain  re 
lief  from  ennui  and  disgust,  for  I  do  not 
think  that  madame  will  trouble  me  again 
very  soon." 


PART    VIII. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 
JOHN    EVELYN    MOWBRAY. 

*:  Then  she  took  up  her  burden  of  life  again, 
Saying  only,  '  It  might  have  been.'  " 

WHITTIER. 

EARLY  in  the  afternoon  of  the  next 
day,  Ethan  and  Celia  were  stand 
ing  at  Mr.  Hartland's  front  gate. 

"Are  you  going  toward  Mr.  Syden- 
ham's,  cousin  ?"  Celia  asked. 

"  No.  I — I  thought  of  calling  on  Dr. 
Meyrac." 

'  Give  him  my  kindest  regards,  and — 
shall  you  see  Ellinor  Ethelridge  ?" 

«  Probably." 

"  Tell  her  I  hope  to  be  with  her  this 
evening." 

The  cousins  separated,  Celia  taking 
the  road  to  Rosebank.  She  passed  the 
house,  however,  and  a  little  way  beyond 
turned  into  a  path  to  the  right,  which  ran 
outside  the  west  fence  of  the  vineyard, 
and  was  bordered  by  a  light  fringe  of 
shrubbery.  It  led  her  to  that  rustic 
bridge  over  Kinshon  Creek  already 
mentioned,  and  she  crossed  it,  entering 
the  village  cemetery  beyond. 

Nature  had  done  much  for  this  little 
secluded  spot.  Its  surface,  some  eight 
or  ten  acres  in  extent,  was  gently  undu 
lating,  with  a  slope  to  the  east.  It  was 
bounded  on  the  north  and  west  by  the 
forest,  on  the  south  by  Kinshon  Creek, 
and  was  open  eastward  toward  the  vil 
lage.  A  few  of  the  handsomest  forest 
trees  had  been  left :  there  had  been 
planted  cedars,  willows  and  graceful 
weeping  birches,  and  around  the  whole 
was  a  hedge  of  laurel,  thick  set,  the 
lower  line  of  this  hedge  reaching  Kin 
shon  Creek  just  above  the  fall.  Over  a 
simple  arched  entrance  on  the  east,  built 
of  the  same  warm  gray  freestone  that 
Sydenham  had  selected  for  his  residence, 
was  the  inscription: 

"  Why  should  not  He  whose  touch  dissolves  our  chain, 
Put  on  His  robes  of  beauty  when  He  comes 
As  a  Deliverer?" 

The  memorials  to  the  dead  were,  with 


few  exceptions,  quite  simple  and  unpre 
tending  :  some  were  of  the  same  gray 
stone  as  the  entrance,  others  of  white 
marble  :  here  and  there  a  touching  in 
scription,  usually  from  some  well-known 
author.  Celia  paused  before  one  of 
these,  over  the  grave  of  her  aunt  Alice's 
only  child,  which  had  died  when  but 
five  years  old.  Selected  by  Alice  her 
self,  but  only  faintly  depicting  the  deso 
lation  that  fell  on  the  mother  as  she  laid 
her  little  one  to  rest  on  that  hillside,  it 
read : 

"  Above  thee  wails  thy  parents'  voice  of  grief; 
Thou  art  gone  hence.     Alas,  that  aught  so  brief 

So  loved  should  be  1 

Thou  tak'st  our  summer  hence  :  the  light,  the  tone. 
The  music  of  our  being,  all  in  one, 

Depart  with  thee." 

A  little  farther  on  she  passed  a  mar 
ble  slab  which  she  had  not  seen  before, 
for  it  had  been  but  recently  placed.  It 
recalled  to  her  a  melancholy  incident. 
A  few  weeks  before  a  German  professor 
and  his  wife,  friends  of  the  Meyracs,  had 
spent  a  few  days  at  the  doctor's  house, 
on  their  way  to  Iowa.  Their  infant  died 
there  suddenly,  of  croup,  and  this  was 
the  grave.  The  inscription  was  in  Ger 
man  ;  and  Celia,  struck  with  its  grace, 
translated  it : 

«  Ephemera  all  die  at  sunset,  and  no 
insect  of  this  class  ever  sported  in  the 
rays  of  the  rising  sun.  Happier  are  ye, 
little  human  ephemera  !  Ye  play  in  the 
ascending  beam  and  in  the  early  dawn 
and  in  the  eastern  light ;  drink  only  the 
first  sweet  draughts  of  life  ;  hover,  for  a 
little  while,  over  a  world  of  freshness 
and  blossoms,  and  then  fall  asleep  in 
innocence,  ere  ever  the  morning  dews 
are  exhaled." 

Celia  glanced  around  the  cemetery : 
she  was  its  only  visitor.  Slowly  she 
passed  on  to  where,  under  the  shade  of 
an  old  oak  of  the  forest,  lay  the  remains 
of  her  father  and  mother.  The  sight  of 
the  spot  awoke  a  new  train  of  thought : 
"  She  knows  it  all  now,  and  she  has  for 
given  him."  Celia  was  as  sure  of  that 


BEYOND   THE  BREAKERS. 


'S3 


as  if  her  mother  had  suddenly  appeared 
before  her,  there  by  her  grave,  in  robes 
of  white,  and  told  her  so.  "  On  earth 
as  it  is  in  heaven,"  were  the  next  words 
that  occurred  to  her.  But  was  it  on 
earth  as  in  heaven  ?  What  is  forgiven 
there  must  be  punished  here.  Her 
father  had  saved  himself  from  the  pen 
alty  of  penitentiary  labor  only  by  years 
of  deception.  And'  if  his  crime  had 
come  to  light  during  his  life,  what  a 
frightful  blow  for  her  mother !  How 
coiild  he  risk  the  happiness  of  one  he 
loved  so  much  !  Herself,  too,  his  child: 
she  had  escaped  being  a  convict's 
daughter  by  mere  accident — through  the 
lie  that  her  father  had  lived. 

And  not  a  man  or  woman,  or  child 
even,  in  Chiskauga  but  knew  it  now,  or 
would  know  it  all  before  another  week 
had  passed.  Was  she  justified  in  pro 
posing  that  partnership  to  Ellinor  ? 
What  if  the  mothers  of  Ellinor's  pupils 
should  object  to  send  their  daughters  to 
the  child'  of  a  malefactor — a  girl,  too, 
who  was — oh  the  vile  epithet  from  that 
horrid  Mrs.  Wolfgang's  lips  !  It  had 
seared  like  burning  steel.  Could  moth 
ers  be  blamed  if  they  sought  to  preserve 
their  daughters  from  contamination  ? 

Evelyn  Mowbray  ! — his  name  swept 
over  her  next.  A  man  must  protect  his 
children  —  from  reproach  as  much  as 
from  any  other  injury.  Children  living 
in  fear  that  others  should  know  who 
their  mother  was  !  Had  she  a  right  to 
marry  at  all  ?  One  thing  was  clear  as 
noonday.  It  was  her  duty  to  absolve 
Evelyn  from  his  promise  to  make  her 
his  wife.  If  he  did  not  come  to  see 
her,  she  must  seek  him,  to  tell  him 
that. 

The  murmur  of  the  waterfall,  wafted 
up  by  a  soft  southern  breeze,  had  sooth 
ed  her  when  she  first  reached  the  spot, 
but  her  ear  was  deaf  to  it  now  :  bitter 
thoughts  overpowered  Nature's  sooth- 
ings.  Impatient  of  inaction,  she  re 
traced  her  steps. 

As  she  passed  along  the  vineyard,  she 
had  one  of  those  dim  premonitions  which 
sometimes  intimate  the  approach  of  a 
person  to  whom  the  thoughts  have  been 
directed.  Looking  down  the  road  by 


which  Sydenham's  house  was  approach 
ed,  she  saw  some  one  ascending  it. 
The  villagers  often  passed  that  way,  it 
being  the  most  direct  route  for  foot- 
passengers  from  the  village  to  Tyler's 
mill.  Celia /£#  who  this  was,  but  it  did 
not  occur  to  her  that  he  might  be  on  his 
way  to  visit  a  rival.  Stern  feelings  en 
grossed  her,  excluding  all  inklings  of 
jealousy :  she  forgot  Ellen's  existence. 
Her  thought  was  :  "  Shall  I  accost  him 
or  avoid  a  meeting?"  She  saw  him  now 
distinctly,  but  the  high  paling  and  the 
shrubbery  which  fringed  the  path  on  the 
side  next  the  forest  afforded  protection 
sufficient  if  she  resolved  to  escape  ob 
servation.  She  was  too  restless,  how 
ever,  to  delay  the  issue.  With  a  sort  of 
desperate  feeling  she  quickened  her 
steps,  confronting  Mowbray  as  she  turn 
ed  the  corner  of  the  vineyard  fence. 

When  a  man  occupied  by  secret 
thoughts  of  a  friend  or  a  foe  —  thoughts 
which  he  would  fain  hide  from  all  the 
world — comes  suddenly  and  unexpect 
edly  on  the  object  of  his  cogitations,  he 
must  be  an  adept  in  dissimulation  if  he 
can  wholly  conceal  what  he  has  been 
thinking.  Celia  read  in  her  lover's  face 
a  conflict  of  feelings — embarrassment, 
hesitation.  He. rallied  quickly,  however, 
greeted  her  cordially  and  asked  after  her 
health. 

"  WThich  way  were  you  going  ?"  Celia 
asked,  after  replying  to  his  inquiries. 

"  I  sauntered  out  for  exercise,  and  my 
good  angel  must  have  guided  me  here. 
Where  have  you  been  ?" 

"  In  the  cemetery." 

A  pause  ;  then  Mowbray  said  :  "Shall 
we  walk  a  little  way  into  the  woods,  they 
are  so  fresh  and  beautiful  ?" 

Celia  turned  in  assent.  Mowbray 
walked  by  her  side  a  few  steps  ;  then 
added :  "  I  see  you  so  seldom  now, 
Celia.  I  feel  as  if  it  would  be  an  intru 
sion  to  enter  Mr.  Hartland's  house,  he 
is  such  a  crabbed  old  fellow.  What  a 
pity  you  have  such  a  guardian  !  We 
might  have  been  married  before  this  if 
he  had  behaved  like  a  decent  man." 

«  Probably." 

<•  Do  you  think,  dear,  he  will  ever  get 
over  that  grudge  he  has  against  me  ?" 


154 


BEYOND    THE   BREAKERS. 


"  I  cannot  tell :    it  is  not  likely.     But 
he  will  not  press  Cranstoun  upon  me  any 
more  :   he  considers  him  a  scoundrel." 
"That  is  one  point  gained." 
"  My  uncle  is  a  strict,  austere   man, 
subject  to  prejudices,  but  he  is  a  man  to 
trust  in  time  of  trial ;  and  that  is  a  good 
deal  in  this  world.      He  is  upright,  and 
means  to  be  kind." 

"  Let  us  hope,  then,  that  he  will  change 
his  opinion  of  me,  as  much  as  he  has  of 
Amos  Cranstoun." 

"  Would  that  be  important  ?" 
Something  in  the  steady  tone,  more 
than  the  words,  startled  Mowbray.  The 
look  of  embarrassment  came  over  his 
face  again.  Celia  turned  very  pale,  but 
she  asked  him  quietly  :  "  Have  you  ever 
thought  about  choosing  a  profession, 
Evelyn  ?" 

"Yes,  often,  but  I've  never  been  able 
to  make  up  my  mind  what  it  is  best  for 
me  to  do.  I'm  not  as  clever  as  you, 
Celia  dear." 

"  I  don't  see  that.  You're  as  far  ad 
vanced  in  German  as  I  am  ;  and  if  you 
would  only  cultivate  Dr.  Meyrac's  ac 
quaintance,  you  would  soon  speak  French 
fluently." 

"  But  how  would  French  and  German 
help  me  to  a  profession  ?" 

Another  pause.  Celia  broke  it,  say 
ing  :  "  I  hear  your  mother  is  not  as  well 
as  usual." 

"  No ;  mother's  health  is  certainly 
failing.  I  tell  her  she  works  too  hard, 
and  that  she  ought  to  give  up  some  of 
her  pupils,  but  she  thinks  she  can't 
afford  it.  She  has  been  in  the  habit  of 
doing  our  ironing,  so  as  not  to  make  it 
too  hard  on  Susan — you  know  we  have 
only  one  girl — but  I  persuaded  her  to 
get  Betty  Carson  for  half  a  day  each 
week.  Betty's  so  busy  she  had  only 
Saturday  afternoons  to  spare,  but  we 
made  that  suit." 

"  You  had  Betty  yesterday  afternoon, 
then  ?" 
"  Yes." 

They  had  reached  the  forest  by  this 
time.  Here  a  footpath,  diverging  to  the 
left  from  the  direct  road  to  the  mill, 
led,  in  a  circuit  through  the  woods,  back 
to  the  village.  "  Let  us  return  home  by 


this  path,"   said   Celia :    «  I  am  a  little 
tired." 

As  they  walked  on,  she  looked  up  in 
the  face  of  the  man  she  had  loved  so 
dearly  and  trusted  so  utterly,  and  had 
always  thought  so  generous  and  kind. 
It  was  as  much  as  she  could  do  to  re 
strain  her  tears,  but  she  did  restrain 
them,  and  commanded  her  voice  so  as 
to  say,  in  a  steady  tone:  "You  know 
what  has  happened  to  me,  Evelyn.  I'm 
sure  Betty  Carson  must  have  told  it  to 
your  mother  yesterday." 

Mowbray  blushed  scarlet,  like  a  girl. 
"  I   believe  " — he  stammered — "  I   think 
I  heard  mother  say — Betty  told  her — " 
"  What  did  Betty  tell  her  ?" 
"  It   was   some   difficulty   about  your 
father's  marriage,  as  I  understood." 

"  That  he  had  a  wife  living  in  Eng 
land — was  that  it  ?" 

"  I  think  that  was  the  story,  as  far  as 
I  made  it  out." 

"  Did  you  believe  it  ?" 
"  I  hope  it  is  not  true,  dear  Celia.     I 
should  be  so  glad  to  hear  from  you  that  it 
is  all  a  fabrication." 

"  You  didn't  say  a  word  to  me  about 
it  when  we  met  ?" 

"  Why  should  I  repeat  to  you  such  a 
scandalous  report  ?" 

"  You  expected,  then,  that  we  should 
meet  day  after  day,  and  pass  it  all  over, 
without  any  explanation,  without  any 
consultation  ?" 

"  Your  denial  is  sufficient." 
"  My  denial  ?  Every  word  of  it  is 
true,  Evelyn — every  word.  My  father 
was  a  bigamist.  A  bigamist  is  a  felon. 
If  he  had  been  found  out,  he  would  have 
worked  in  the  penitentiary,  a  convict.  I 
am  a  felon's  daughter.  I  am — "  She 
caught  her  breath,  but  hesitated  only  for 
a  moment :  "  I  am  a  bastard  —  a  bas 
tard  !  I  heard  myself  called  so  yester 
day.  I  heard  my  mother  called  my 
father's  kept  mistress.  Do  you  hear 
that  ?  Do  you  think  we  can  live  on  and 
say  nothing  about  such  things  to  one 
another — you  and  I,  lovers,  two  people 
who  are  engaged  to  be  married — engaged 
to  stand  up  and  take  each  other  for  bet 
ter,  for  worse,  till  death  part  us  ?" 

Mowbray  was  weak,  of  facile  nature, 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


155 


inconstant,  but  he  had  a  certain  gener 
osity  withal,  and  Celia  had  roused  it. 
He  turned  to  address  her,  but  stopped, 
fearing  she  was  about  to  faint.  By  the 
side  of  the  path,  close  by,  there  lay  a 
large  poplar  that  had  been  blown  over 
a  few  days  before.  He  begged  her  to 
sit  down,  supporting  her  toward  it,  but 
she  recovered  herself,  saying,  "  Never 
mind,  Evelyn — I'm  better:  let  us  walk 
on  slowly." 

"Surely,  my  darling  Celia,"  Evelyn 
said,  offering  her  his  arm — "  Surely  you 
know  how  much  I  love  you.  What 
difference  can  it  make  to  me  whether 
your  father  behaved  ill  or  not  ?" 

"  What  difference  ?  You  don't  care 
whether  your  children  might  live  to  be 
ashamed  of  one  of  their  parents  or  not? 
You  wouldn't  care  if,  some  day,  it  should 
be  thrown  up  to  a  girl  of  yours  that  her 
grandfather  was  a  felon,  who  cruelly 
wronged  the  one  he  loved  dearest  on 
earth,  and  that  her  mother  was  an  ille 
gitimate  child  ?  You  would  care,  Eve 
lyn  :  you  could  not  help  it.  You  once 
told  me  the  Moubrays  were  in  Domes 
day  Book.  You  stand  on  the  honor  of 
the  name." 

He  was  about  to  protest,  but  she 
stopped  him :  "  One  word  more.  I 
must  think  for  you,  dear  friend,  as  well 
as  for  myself.  You  have  no  profession. 
You  have  never  seriously  thought — you 
don't  think  now — of  studying  one.  Your 
mother  is  barely  able,  faithfully  as  she 
works,  to  support  herself.  If  her  health 
gives  way,  she  cannot  continue  to  do 
that ;  and  then  to  whom  can  she  look 
but  to  her  son  ?  I  saw  all  this  before, 
when  we  were  first  engaged  ;  but  I 
knew  then  that  I  had  enough  for  both, 
and  that  your  mother  could  always  have 
a  home  with  us — " 

"  Dear  Celia,  how  unjust  is  fortune  to 
disinherit  one  so  generous  as  you  !" 

"  I  thought  then  that,  in  any  event, 
neither  you  nor  your  mother  would 
suffer;  but  now — I'm  not  a  beggar,  Eve 
lyn,  though  a  woman  (my  uncle's  sister) 
said  I  was :  it  was  in  Dr.  Meyrac's 
parlor  ;  I  heard  her  ;  her  words  haunt 
me — but  I'm  not  a  beggar:  those  who 
have  health  and  friends  and  good-will  to 


work  need  never  beg ;  but  I  am  a  poor 
orphan,  without  power  to  help  any  one, 
only  too  happy  if  I  can  earn  my  own 
support." 

"And  you  think  I  am  dishonorable 
enough  to  desert  you  in  your  adversity?" 

"Your  father  left  your  mother  and 
you  little  but  an  honorable  name  and 
an  unblemished  reputation.  You  must 
guard  these — you  must  take  care  of  your 
mother,  and — "  the  color  left  her  cheeks 
as  she  added  firmly,  but  in  a  low  voice — 
"you  must  find  some  other  wife  than 
me." 

"  Celia,  Celia  !"  said  Mowbray  earn 
estly,  "  I  would  marry  you,  in  spite  of 
everything  that  has  passed — I'd  marry 
you  to-morrow  and  brave  it  all,  if  your 
uncle  would  only  consent." 

Now,  for  the  first  time,  the  tears  filled 
Celia's  eyes,  and  she  could  scarcely  re 
ply.  They  had  come  to  a  turn  in  the 
path  whence  a  vista  opened  down  on  the 
village  and  distant  lake.  Sydenham  had 
caused  a  rustic  seat  to  be  placed  there, 
whence  to  enjoy  the  view.  This  time 
she  was  persuaded  to  rest :  the  agita 
tion  she  had  passed  through  had  un 
nerved  her. 

"It's  very  kind  of  you,  Evelyn,"  she 
answered,  after  they  were  seated,  "to 
say  that  you  would  marry  me  still,  but  it 
cannot  be.  Your  mother  would  not  wish 
it.  We  have  not  the  means  of  support 
ing  a  household  :  that  will  confirm  my 
uncle  in  his  opposition.  He  is  certain, 
now,  to  adhere  to  his  refusal  so  long  as 
my  promise  to  mamma  gives  him  the 
right  to  do  so  ;  and  I'm  glad  of  it." 

"  You,  Celia  !— glad  of  it  ?" 

"  Yes,  glad." 

"  Then  the  hints  Cranstoun  threw  out 
to  me  about  Creighton's  frequent  visits 
to  your  uncle's  house  were  true,  after  all  ? 
He  has  a  profession — he  can  support  a 
wife.  He  is  an  orator,  and  the  ladies 
always  admire  orators.  Mr.  Sydenham 
speaks  highly  of  him,  too.  You  and 
Leoline  Sydenham  called  on  his  mother 
last  week.  I  see  it  all.  I  have  nothing 
to  say  to  it:  it's  all  right.  Only  you 
might  have  told  me  honestly,  Celia,  how 
the  land  lay,  instead  of  fooling  me  with 
these  long  stories  about  your  father  and 


iS6 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


mother.  You  had  only  to  give  me  a 
hint  that  another  was  preferred,  and  I 
would  have  released  you  at  any  time.  I 
might  have  known — " 

Mowbray  stopped,  amazed  at  the  effect 
of  his  words.  Celia  had  dried  her  eyes 
and  had  spoken  to  him  quietly,  kindly, 
in  reply  to  that  offer  of  marriage.  But 
now  hot  tears  burst  forth  without  re 
straint — convulsive  sobs  shook  her  frame 
from  head  to  foot.  Long  and  bitterly 
she  wept,  covering  her  face  with  her 
hands.  Mowbray,  repentant,  began  in 
humble  tone  to  apologize  for  his  sus 
picions.  She  did  not  intimate,  by  reply 
or  gesture,  that  she  heard  him.  Then 
he  spoke  to  her  tenderly,  using  terms  of 
endearment :  still,  not  a  word,  not  a 
sign,  but  the  passion  of  grief  seemed 
gradually  to  wear  itself  out.  As  she 
became  quieter  he  gently  took  one  of 
her  hands  :  she  left  .it  passively  in  his 
grasp.  Then  he  put  an  arm  around  her 
waist.  The  touch  seemed  to  awake  her 
at  once.  She  rose  to  her  feet,  confront 
ing  him.  He  rose  too.  They  stood 
there  for  a  minute  or  two,  neither  speak 
ing —  Mowbray  actually  afraid;  poor 
Celia  struggling  desperately  for  com 
posure.  At  last  she  spoke,  faintly  at 
first,  but  gathering  courage  as  she  went 
on  : 

«  I  used  to  think  we  had  so  much  in 
common.  It  seemed  to  me  we  suited 
each  other.  I  thought  you  understood 
me,  Evelyn.  Eight  months  ago  you 
asked  me  to  marry  you.  Did  you  take 
me  for  a  girl  who  would  say  yes,  as  I 
did.  and  then  leave  you  bound  by  the 
promise  you  made  to  me  in  return,  after 
I  had  changed  my  mind  and  preferred 
another  ?  I  loved  you,  Evelyn :  I 
thought  so  much  of  you." 

"Forgive  me  —  oh  forgive  me!"  he 
broke  in. 

"  Slanderers  tried  to  poison  my  mind 
against  you.  They  sent  me  an  anony 
mous  letter  telling  me  that  you  met 
Ellen  Tyler  and  made  love  to  her, 
secretly,  at  a  lonely  spot  in  the  woods 
near  her  father's  mill,  and  that  her  father 
had  surprised  one  of  your  interviews." 

"  Did  you  believe  all  that  of  me, 
Celia?" 


«  Not  a  word  of  it.  If  I  had,  I  should 
have  spoken  to  you  about  it  that  very 
day.  I  burned  the  letter,  and  have 
scarcely  thought  of  it  since — till  now. 
I  trusted  you." 

"  How  nobly  you  have  acted  !" 
"  Have  you  trusted  me  f  Do  you 
know  what  you  have  just  been  telling 
me  ? — that,  after  I  had  solemnly  prom 
ised  to  be  your  wife,  and  without  ever 
asking  to  be  released  from  that  promise, 
I  played  you  false,  secretly  encouraging 
another  because  he  was  better  able  to 
support  a  wife  than  you.  You  accuse 
me  of  this — on  whose  authority  ?  On 
the  authority  of  a  villain  who  traduced 
yourself  (I'm  certain  that  anonymous 
letter  was  from  him) — on  the  say-so  of 
a  scoundrel  who  took  ten  thousand  dol 
lars  from  poor  papa  —  hush-money  to 
conceal  the  English  marriage  —  and  who 
has  just  written  to  the  heir-at-law  in 
England,  offering  to  bring  suit  against 
me  and  recover  the  property  for  him,  on 
half  shares.  You  set  his  lies  against 
your  faith  in  me,  and  they  outweigh  it?" 
"  Spare  me,  Celia,  spare  me." 
"  I'  am  sorry — very  sorry,  Evelyn — " 
in  a  softened  tone — "  but  you  force  me 
to  defend  myself.  And  the  truth  must 
be  told  :  the  happiness  of  both  our  lives 
depends  upon  it." 

"  I  absolve  you  from  all  blame,  Celia." 
"  As  to  Mr.  Creighton,  he  is  a  brave, 
generous  man  :  any  woman  might  be 
proud  of  him  as  a  husband.  I  do  honor 
him — you  touched  the  truth  there — be 
cause  he  selected  a  profession  and  works 
hard  at  it,  as  every  young  man  should. 
He  has  a  right  to  ask  any  woman  in 
marriage,  and  I  hope  he  will  find  one 
worthy  to  be  his  wife.  But  he  is  nothing 
to  me.  I  do  not  love  him,  and  I  never 
shall.  He  does  not  love  me.  I  don't 
even  think  he  likes  me.  He  thinks  me 
purse-proud,  I  believe  :  at  least  his  man 
ner  has  seemed  to  say  so.  When  I  told 
you  that  I  was  glad  my  uncle  persisted 
in  refusing  assent  to  our  marriage,  I  had 
forgotten  there  was  such  a  man  as  Mr. 
Creighton  in  the  world.  I  was  thinking 
of  you  —  not  of  him.  I  was  thinking 
that  if  I  had  been  free  to  marry,  and 
you  had  proposed  to  make  me  yoijr  wife 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


157 


to-morrow,  it  would  have  been  wrong  in 
me  to  accept  the  offer.  I  was  glad  that, 
if  you  did  persist  in  seeking  me,  two 
years  and  a  half  would  intervene,  so  that 
you  could  make  no  sacrifice  on  the  im 
pulse  of  the  moment.  If  you  had  under 
stood  anything  about  me,  you  would 
have  felt  that  at  once." 

«  Celia,  Celia,  leave  me  hope  yet." 
"It  is  too  late.  We  have  not  the 
power  of  trusting  whom  we  will.  If  I 
had  my  property  back,  I  would  give  it 
all — freely,  joyfully — to  regain  the  faith 
in  you  that  I  have  lost.  Oh,  Evelyn, 
you  have  uttered  suspicions — you  have 
spoken  words  to-day — that  will  stand  up 
for  ever  a  barrier  between  us.  You 
said  " — she  trembled,  reseating  herself 
and  pausing,  as  if  to  gain  courage — "you 
said  that  I  had  dealt  falsely  by  you,  and 
that,  to  conceal  my  encouragement  of 
Mr.  Creighton's  addresses,  I  was  fooling 
you  with  tales  about  my  father  and 
mother.  It  was  an  insult — an  insult  to 
their  memory  and  to  me.  I  know  it  was 
caused  by  a  petulant  burst  of  anger. 
But  the  words  were  said,  and  can  never, 
in  this  world,  be  recalled." 
"  Is  this  your  final  decision  ?" 
"  Yes,  final  and  irrevocable.  I  shall 
never  marry.  I  don't  want  any  man  to 
brave  reproach  for  me.  I  can  bear  my 
own  burden.  I  release  you  from  all 
promise,  and  you  shall  have  a  witness 
in  proof.  I  shall  see  your  mother  to 
night,  and  tell  her  that  her  son  is  free." 
"  And  you  throw  me  over,  without 
more  ado,  like  that,  as  if  I  were  a  worth 
less  scapegrace.  What  am  I  to  think 
of  your  love,  Celia  ?" 

"  Do  not  let  us  part  in  anger,  Evelyn. 
I  don't  think  you  worthless.  I  think 
we  are  unsuited  to  each  other,  and  that 
we  should  be  unhappy  together  if  we 
married.  And  it  is  not  you  who  have 
to  fear  insinuations  about  being  thrown 
over,  as  you  call  it.  It  is  not  a  rich 
girl  jilting  a  poor  man.  I  accepted  you 
when  I  was  able  to  offer  a  competency. 
A  penniless  girl,  I  reject  you  —  a  penni 
less  and  nameless  girl,  whom  nobody 
would  care  to  own.  You  ask  what  you 
are  to  think  of  my  love"  —  again  that 
tremble  in  the  tones  :  "  it  may  be  a 


[  comfort  to  you  some  day,  Evelyn,  to  re 
member  that  a  young  girl  once  loved 
you  dearly,  trusted  you  implicitly,  would 
have  given  her  life  for  yours.  I  am  not 
ashamed  to  own  it,  even  now  that  you 
and  I — "  If  she  could  have  arrested  her 
tears,  how  gladly  she  would  have  done 
it !  but  tears  are  tyrants  and  will  have 
their  way.  "  We  must  part  friends, 
dear  Evelyn  :  that  may  be,  and  ought 
to  be,  and  shall  be,  unless  you  reject  my 
friendship.  You  will  not  do  that  ?" 

Mowbray  gave  her  both  his  hands  ; 
and  long  afterward,  when  he  was  far 
away  and  at  the  head  of  a  household  in 
which  Celia  was  a  stranger,  the  girl  re 
membered,  with  feelings  of  tender  re 
gard,  that  when  they  rose  to  walk  home — 
nevermore  to  enter  these  woods  as  lovers 
again — hers  were  not  the  only  eyes  that 
were  wet.  The  man  had  been  touched 
to  the  soul  at  last ;  and  all  he  could  say 
was,  "  Can  you  ever  forgive  me,  noble 
girl  ?" 

"  I  have  forgiven  everything,  dear 
friend.  Do  not  let  us  say  a  word  more 
about  it." 

And  they  walked  home — these  two — 
talking  quietly  and  amicably  of  common 
place  things,  attracting  the  inquiring 
looks  of  many  villagers  whom  they  met, 
until,  near  to  Hartland's  dwelling,  they 
reached  the  cross  street  that  led  to  Mrs. 
Mowbray's  cottage  on  the  lake.  There 
Mowbray  wrung  Celia's  hand  in  silence, 
parted  from  her — and  it  was  all  over ! 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 
ON   THE   LAKE  SHORE. 

"  I  do  believe  it, 
Against  an  oracle." 

SHAKESPEARE — The  Tempest. 

WHEN  Celia  parted  from  her  cousin 
at  her  uncle's  front  gate  that  afternoon, 
some  tone  or  look  of  his  suggested  to 
her  that  his  projected  visit  was  to  Ellinor 
only,  not  to  Dr.  Meyrac.  Yet  it  seems 
she  was  mistaken.  When  Ethan  called 
at  the  house  he  asked  for  the  doctor, 
and  was  closeted  with  him  for  some  time. 
Afterward,  it  is  true,  he  inquired  for  Miss 
Ethelridge,  and  she  came  to  the  parlor. 


i58 


BETOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


"  It  is  a  charming  afternoon,"  he  said, 
"  soft  and  balmy,  like  a  day  of  early 
summer.  I  thought,  perhaps,  you  would 
not  object  to  a  stroll  on  the  banks  of  the 
lake." 

She  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and 
Ethan  added  :  «  You  are  so  much  con 
fined  during  the  week,  Miss  Ellinor — " 

«  I'll  put  on  my  hat  and  shawl  and  go 
with  pleasure,"  rising  to  prepare  for  the 
walk. 

April  is  proverbially  inconstant,  yet 
in  temperate  latitudes,  when  the  sun 
shines  out  and  a  southern  breeze  stirs 
the  air,  what  more  delightful  days,  fresh 
and  inspiring  !  —  all  the  fresher  and 
brighter  that  they  shine  upon  us,  like 
joy  succeeding  sorrow,  after  a  season 
of  murky  clouds  and  drifting  rains.  No 
days  in  all  the  year  when  hearts,  if  they 
be  true  and  warm,  so  gratefully  yield  to 
tender  and  trustful  influences.  The  an 
niversaries  are  they  of  Faith  and  Hope 
and  Love. 

These  two,  Ellinor  and  Ethan,  were 
faithful  and  cordial ;  and  as  they  passed 
down  the  shady  avenue,  and  thence  to 
the  left  along  the  pleasant  lake  shore, 
there  came  over  them,  with  genial 
glamour,  the  spirit  of  the  hour  and  the 
place. 

Ethan  had  been  a  frequent  visitor  of 
the  Meyracs,  whom  he  liked  :  he  had 
often  joined  their  walking-parties  when 
Ellinor  was  of  the  number  ;  occasionally 
he  had  accompanied  his  cousin  and  her 
friend  when  they  rode  out  together  ;  but 
this  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  in 
vited  Miss  Ethelridge  to  walk  with  him 
alone.  Ellinor  felt  that  it  was,  and  the 
consciousness  of  it  embarrassed  Ethan. 
After  a  little  commonplace  talk,  they 
walked  on  for  some  time  in  silence. 
Then  Ellinor  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"What  a  beautiful  spot  for  building!" 
she  said,  as  they  passed  a  certain  six- 
acre  lot  that  our  readers  wot  of.  «  Has 
it  been  bought  ?" 

"No.  Mr.  Sydenham  had  instructed 
me  not  to  sell  it." 

"  How  prettily  it  is  laid  out !  Is  it 
for  sale  now  ?" 

"  No." 

"  Somebody  has   shown   much    taste 


there.  Mr.  Sydenham  entrusted  the 
laying  of  it  out  tq  you,  did  he  not,  Mr. 
Hartland  ?" 

"Yes.  I'm  glad  it  pleases  you.  I 
like  to  lay  out  pretty  spots,  and  this 
always  took  my  fancy.  It's  embellish 
ment  was  a  labor  of  love." 

"  I  have  not  seen  a  more  charming 
site  for  a  picturesque  cottage  for  many  a 
day." 

Then  they  relapsed  into  silence  again. 
After  a  time  Ethan  said  :  "  Cousin  Celia 
tells  me  you  and  she  are  to  be  partners 
in  carrying  on  the  'Chiskauga  Institute.' 
I  am  very  glad  of  it — glad  for  her  sake, 
for,  though  she  is  a  dear,  good,  willing 
girl,  she  is  inexperienced,  while  your 
management  and  method  are  excellent  ; 
and  glad  for  yours,  Miss  Ethelridge,  be 
cause  the  labor  and  the  responsibility 
are  too  much  for  you  alone  :  your  brain 
and  your  eyes  have  been  overtasked." 

Ellinor  looked  up  quickly  :  "  Did 
Celia  speak  to  you  about  my  being 
overtasked  ?" 

"  No  :  she  only  spoke  to  me  of  her 
great  love  for  you,  and  of  her  joy  that 
you  were  willing  to  receive  her." 

"  Dear  child  !  It  was  your  own  idea, 
then  ?" 

"  Forgive  me,  dear  Miss  Ethelridge. 
I  have  no  right  to  interfere — "  he  paused 
in  search  of  an  expression — "  to  inter 
fere  in  what  regards  your  welfare.  But 
I  have  remarked — it  has  seemed  to  me 
sometimes — that  when  you  have  used 
your  eyes  long  in  school,  you  felt  pain 
or  uneasiness." 

"  I  do  occasionally.  But  is  that  your 
only  reason  for  supposing  my  eyes 
weak  ?" 

"  No.  I  fear  that  I  shall  appear  pre 
sumptuous,  but — I  wanted  so  much  to 
know  the  truth,  and  I  spoke  to  Dr. 
Meyrac  about  it." 

"  And  he  said—?" 

"  That  it  was  important  you  should 
not  overwork  your  eyes,  especially  at 
night." 

»  Nothing  more  ?" 

"  No.  You  are  not  offended  by  my 
intermeddling  ?" 

"  Offended  !  I  have  met  with  much 
kindness  —  more  than  I  expected — far 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


159 


more  than  I  had  any  right  to  expect — 
since  I  came  here ;  but  no  one  has 
treated  me  more  thoughtfully  and  gen 
erously  than  you.  I  am  too  dependent 
on  my  friends  to  quarrel  with  kindness  ; 
and  if  I  have  said  little  about  yours,  Mr. 
Hartland,  don't  think  I  am  ungrateful." 

"  I  am  ashamed  to  hear  you  speak  of 
it.  What  little  I  have  been  able  to  do 
for  you  by  taking  that  German  class  was 
done  during  time  that  belonged  to  Mr. 
Sydenham  and  at  his  desire." 

"  You  suggested  it  to  him  ?" 

Ethan  did  not  reply  to  this. 

Ellinor  saw  through  it  all  now.  She 
understood  why  he  had  sought  to  relieve 
her  from  the  senior  class,  two  hours  a 
week,  by  the  German  lessons  ;  why  he 
had  offered  to  read  to  her  of  evenings  ; 
why  he  so  often  proposed,  to  Madame 
Meyrac  and  herself,  to  translate  to  them 
passages  he  had  selected  from  his  Ger 
man  favorites.  She  understood  why  he 
had  volunteered  a  thousand  little  ser 
vices  that  saved  her  eyes  from  strain. 
"You  are  a  good  man,  Mr.  Hartland," 
she  said,  warmly.  "  God  requite  you  ! 
for  I  never  can." 

Ethan's  face — not  a  handsome  one,  if 
one  looked  to  regularity  of  feature,  but 
a  face  in  which  one  read  firmness,  be 
nevolence,  honesty — Ethan's  face  lit  up 
with  joy.  But  he  changed  the  subject, 
speaking  of  details  connected  with  the 
projected  partnership.  Thus  convers 
ing,  they  passed  the  fair-ground,  where, 
the  day  before,  there  had  been  a  base 
ball  match  between  rival  clubs,  and 
reached  a  spot  where  a  footpath  ascend 
ing  in  zigzag  the  face  of  the  hillside, 
through  thick  underbrush  of.  laurel 
bushes,  led  up  to  the  summit  of  the  cliff, 
which,  as  our  readers  know,  rose  pre 
cipitously  from  the  shore  of  the  lake  a 
little  way  beyond  its  north-western 
extremity. 

Here,  in  a  grove  of  cedars  near  the 
verge  of  the  cliff,  the  villagers  had  erect 
ed  a  summer-house,  sheltered  from  the 
north,  but  open  on  the  side  next  the 
lake.  The  view  thence  was  quite  equal 
to  that  which  had  struck  even  Cassiday 
with  admiration  on  his  arrival. 

The  sweep  of  low  hills,  from  one  of 


which  that  worthy  had  first  caught  sight 
of  the  village,  could  be  traced,  trending 
off  to  the  south  for  several  miles,  till  the 
outline  was  lost  in  the  forest.  The  lake, 
seen  from  this  spot  throughout  its  full 
extent,  lay,  like  some  huge  creature  in 
lazy  beauty,  at  their  feet ;  its  banks,  on 
the  village  side  beyond  the  Elm  Walk, 
dotted  with  pretty  cottages,  spacious 
gardens  behind  them.  The  valley-land 
beyond,  chequered  throughout  with  a 
carpeting  of  fresh  green,  spoke  of  teem 
ing  harvests  and  a  bounteous  summer 
to  come.  Over  all — valley  and  village 
and  placid  lake — shone  the  slanting  rays 
of  the  sun,  now  declining  to  the  west. 
One  might  light  on  a  thousand  more 
striking  aspects  of  nature,  but  on  few 
more  suggestive  of  peace  and  cheerful 
ness  and  rural  comfort. 

They  found  the  summer-house  vacant, 
and  seated  themselves  in  full  view  of  the 
quiet  scene.  Ellinor's  glance  wandered 
over  it,  a  tender  melancholy  gradually 
shading  her  face.  She  was  seeking  to 
stamp  each  feature  of  the  landscape  on 
waning  sense  ;  laying  up,  in  store  for 
possible  years  of  darkness  to  come, 
bright  memories  of  a  glorious  world. 

"You  regret,  sometimes,"  said  Ethan 
in  a  low  voice,  "  that  you  have  settled, 
here  out  of  the  world,  among  us  ?  You 
look  back,  with  sadness,  do  you  not,  on 
far  different  life  in  Europe  ?" 

"  With  sadness,  yes,  but  never  with 
regret.  Do  you  regret,  after  spending 
some  years  in  the  Old  W7orld,  that  you 
have  returned  to  Chiskauga  ?" 

«  I  ?  Oh  no  !  But  that  is  quite  dif 
ferent.  I  was  born  in  New  England, 
but  I  came  here  so  young  that  Chis 
kauga  seems  to  me  almost  my  native 
place.  I  like  it  more  and  more  day  by 
day.  If — if  the  good  fortune  that  has 
followed  me  so  far  endures,  I  should  be 
willing  to  live  and  die  here." 

"Your  engagement  with  Mr.  Syden 
ham  is  a  permanent  one,  is  it  not  ?" 

Ethan  hesitated — coloring  and  show 
ing  unwonted  agitation.  When  he  spoke 
something  in  the  tone  of  his  voice  caused 
Ellinor  to  breathe  more  quickly — in  ths 
low,  pleading  tone  it  was,  not  in  the  sim 
ple  words  :  "  Will  you  let  me  tell  you 


i6o 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


something  of  my  life  and  my  prospects, 
Miss  Ethelridge,  and  not  think  me 
egotistical  ?" 

Ellinor  smiled  :  "  We  were  speaking, 
a  little  while  ago,  of  my  plans  and  pros 
pects.  Did  that  strike  you  as  egotism 
in  me  ?" 

"How  kind  you  are  !  It  shall  not  be 
a  long  story.  I  wish  you  had  known 
my  mother — my  own  mother.  She  was 
as  gentle  and  warm-hearted  as  my  step 
mother  is  ;  and  I  think  there  never  was 
any  one  who  so  forgot  herself  in  her  child 
as  she  in  all  she  did  for  me.  It  is  very 
sad  to  think  of  it,  but  I  know  now  that 
she  must  have  accepted  my  father  from 
motives  of  respect  and  esteem — her  love 
was  all  lavished  on  me." 

"  I  have  heard  those  who  knew  her 
well  speak  of  her  in  terms  of  high 
praise." 

"  I  never  realized  till  I  lost  her  what 
she  had  been  to  me.  I  was  very  lonely 
then,  but  after  a  few  years  I  went  to 
Germany ;  and  then  new  scenes  and 
hard'work  filled  my  thoughts.  On  my 
return  I  couldn't  find  employment  as 
civil  engineer  ;  so  I  accepted  from  Mr. 
Sydenham  the  post  of  land-agent.  Of 
his  own  accord  he  has  gradually  in 
creased  my  salary  from  seven  hundred 
and  twenty  dollars  to  fifteen  hundred  dol 
lars  a  year.  Last  year — but  you  know 
how  generous  he  is  —  he  gave  me  what 
you  were  admiring  to-day — that  building 
site  with  the  Elm  Walk  on  one  side 
and  the  lake  in  front.  You  were  right, 
Miss  Ellinor  :  there  is  not  a  more  choice 
spot  for  a  modest  residence  on  the  whole 
property.  Last  week  he  told  me  that 
just  as  long  as  I  could  find  no  more 
eligible  situation  he  wished  me  to  retain 
the  position  I  hold  as  manager  of  his 
Chiskauga  estate,  were  it  for  life  :  he 
even  offered  me  a  further  increase  of 
salary,  in  case" — he  hesitated — "  in  cer 
tain  contingencies.  I  have  saved,  while 
in  his  service,  enough  to  build — perhaps 
not  to  furnish — as  handsome  a  house  as 
I  desire."  Ethan  paused. 

"  I  am  not  surprised,"  said  Ellinor, 
••  that  you  like  Chiskauga  and  are  satis 
fied  with  your  lot." 

"  I     am    not    satisfied    with    my   lot, 


though  I  may  lose  your  good  opinion  by 
saying  so.  I  am  ambitious." 

"  I  should  never  have  thought  it :  you 
seemed  content  to  live  and  die  here. 
Are  you  sorry  to  have  lost  the  chance 
of  distinction  as  engineer  ?  or  have  you 
political  aspirations,  as  my  friend  Mr. 
Creighton  has  had  ?" 

At  the  name  a  shade  as  of  disappoint 
ment  crossed  Ethan's  face.  He  replied 
gravely :  "  My  ambition  rises  higher 
than  a  seat  in  Congress  or  an  engineer's 
post  with  a  ten-thousand  dollar  salary." 

"  I  didn't  guess  that,"  said  Ellinor, 
smiling. 

"No  wonder.  I  doubt  if  there  be  a 
man  or  woman  or  child  in  Chiskauga 
that  would  guess  it,  or  that  would  not 
laugh  at  me  if  they  did,"  a  little  bitterly. 

Had  Ellinor  an  inkling  of  what  was 
coming?  It  seemed  probable  that  some 
shadow  of  the  truth  was  stealing  over 
her,  for  that  color  in  her  cheeks  came 
somewhat  too  suddenly  and  brightly  to 
be  due  merely  to  air  and  exercise.  Yet 
it  could  have  been  a  very  vague  intuition 
only,  or  she  would  not  have  said  :  "You 
are  reticent,  Mr.  Hartland :  you  don't 
share  your  plans  with  your  friends." 

Some  undefined  suasion  in  the  tone  or 
in  the  words,  or  perhaps  it  was  the 
heightened  color,  gave  him  courage. 
"You  think  me  reticent,"  he  said.  "  If 
I  had  ever  believed  that  I  could  confess 
to  you  how  far  my  ambition  reaches, 
without  incurring  —  no,  not  your  con 
tempt,  you  are  too  noble  for  that — but 
your  displeasure,  the  confession  should 
have  been  made  long  ago." 

Then  he  told  her  what  had  lain  hidden 
for  years  in  that  shy  heart  of  his — how 
he  had  taken  himself  to  task  for  aspiring 
to  one  so  far  above  him — one  who  had 
always  seemed  to  him  to  have  come 
down  from  some  upper  sphere  :  how  the 
feeling  of  that  disparity  between  them 
had  grown  and  strengthened  the  more 
he  had  seen  of  her,  the  better  he  had 
learned  to  know  her.  "  God  is  my  wit 
ness,"  he  said,  "  it's  not  of  rank  nor  of 
social  position  I'm  talking :  these  have 
no  oppression  for  me.  If  I  were  to  be 
presented  to  a  queen  to-morrow,  it  would 
be  without  anything  akin  to  abasement : 


BEYOND    THE   BREAKERS. 


161 


we  learn  independence  of  feeling  here  in 
the  West.  But  there  is  a  subtile  some 
thing  that  enshrines  you  ;  an  atmosphere 
of  delicate  culture  and  refinement,  that 
is  parti}-  due  no  doubt  to  lifelong  seclu 
sion  from  all  rude  agencies." 

"  Seclusion  from  all  rude  agencies  ? 
If  you  only  knew,  Mr.  Hartland,  what 
has  befallen  me  !" 

"  I  do  not  know.  I  do  not  ask.  The 
past  is  nothing  to  me.  It's  of  the  future 
I  wanted  to  speak.  I  think  I  should 
not  have  had  courage  for  it  to-day,  if  you 
hadn't  said  those  kind  words — far,  far 
beyond  my  desert.  I  feel  that  I  am 
country-bred,  rudely  nurtured,  and  with 
a  mere  humble  competence  to  offer.  I 
have  no  claims — but  none  of  us  have 
any  claims  on  God  for  mercy  and  love." 

"You  say  this  to  a  poor,  penniless 
country  teacher  ?" 

"  I  say  it  to  Ellinor  Ethelridge.  I 
knew  I  should  have  to  say  it  some  day 
or  other.  It's  too  strong  for  me.  I 
thought  perhaps  I  might  escape  it  by 
throwing  every  energy  into  my  work  :  I 
used  to  like  that  for  its  own  sake  ;  but 
I've  come  to  feel  that  work  without  care 
for  something  beyond  oneself  has  no  life 
in  it— is  nothing  but  a  task.  It  was  a 
little  thing,  that  bit  of  land  to  build  on  : 
how  the  magnates  of  this  world  would 
laugh  if  they  knew  what  joy  I  felt  when 
Sydenham's  generosity  threw  it  into  my 
hands  !  But  for  me  its  charm  was  in 
hope,  not  in  possession.  The  solitary 
feeling  I  had  when  I  lost  my  mother 
had  come  again  ;  and  one  night  I  dream 
ed  that  the  pretty  cottage  I  had  been 
thinking  of  stood  there  in  the  early  sun 
shine,  and — that  I  was  no  longer  solitary. 
Dreaming  still,  I  went  out  to  work,  not 
for  myself  alone  and  impatient  till  even 
ing  came  :  then,  when  I  returned,  in  the 
moonlight — there  on  the  lake  shore,  all 
in  white — I  knew  it  was  not  a  spirit,  yet 
I  approached  it  with  misgiving.  But  I 
iL'as  welcomed,  as  some  poor  wanderer, 
when  earth-life  has  passed,  may  be  re 
ceived  in  heaven.  Now  you  know  all 
the  extravagance  of  my  ambition.  You 
know  on  what  conditions  I'm  willing  to 
live  and  to  die  in  this  little  village  of  ours. 
My  life  is  dark,  my  work  is  irksome, 
ii 


that  pretty  home-spot  is  a  mockery, 
without  you,  Ellinor.  You  may  not  care 
for  my  love — perhaps  you  love  another  : 
then  you  shall  never  be  pained  by  one 
troublesome  word  from  me.  I  cannot 
live  in  sight  of  Paradise  and  feel  that  its 
gates  are  closed  against  me  for  ever. 
But  the  world  is  wide,  and  every  man 
must  do  what  God  allots  to  him  till  the 
clay  of  release  comes." 

These  undemonstrative  creatures  who 
walk  through  life  with  heart  in  check  and 
feelings  "like  greyhounds  in  the  slips," 
have  sometimes,  under  the  frigid  sur 
face,  a  humble  well-spring  of  enthusiasm 
that  will  overflow  on  occasion.  To-day 
Ethan's  time  had  come ;  the  hidden 
fount  was  stirred.  It  was  a  new  revela 
tion  to  Ellinor. 

Though  her  cheeks  were  flushed  and 
the  tears  had  stolen  to  her  eyes,  she  sat 
quiet  and  silent,  gazing  dreamily  on  the 
placid  landscape  before  her.  Ethan  said 
not  a  word  more — half-hoping  when  he 
saw  her  hesitate — content,  for  the  mo 
ment,  that  his  temerity  had  not  called 
forth  sudden  rejection.  At  last  the  an 
swer  came  in  a  subdued  tone :  "  Mr. 
Hartland,  I'  think  the  highest  honor  one 
human  being  can  confer  on  another  is 
the  homage  of  a  faithful  heart.  But  I 
owe  you  more  than  this.  You  trust  me 
implicitly,  knowing  nothing,  asking  no 
thing,  of  my  past  life.  Yet  my  position 
might  well  create  doubts,  even  in  those 
least  inclined  to  suspicion,  whether  mis 
conduct  might  not  have  had  something 
to  do  with  this  exile  from  my  native 
land." 

The  lover  thought  he  felt  his  way 
clear  now.  His  tongue  was  loosed : 
his  heart  spoke  from  his  eyes.  Ellinor 
did  not  recognize  the  Ethan  she  had 
known  for  years  as  he  replied  :  «  What 
ever  concerns  you  must  interest  me. 
But  you  know  little  how  I  love  you  if 
you  think  it  necessary  to  say  one  word 
in  exculpation — in  explanation,  I  mean — 
of  your  coming  here  among  us  to  do  us 
good.  Can  love  be  faithful  and  have  no 
faith  ? — a  pitiful  imposture  without  it  ! 
It  is  not  in  the  power  of  human  being — 
not  even  in  yours — to  convince  me  that 
you  have  ever  knowingly,  willfully,  done 


162 


BETOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


anything  that  God  or  good  men  will  re 
member  against  you  for  judgment ;  but 
I  don't  care — I  mean,  that  except  for  the 
pain  which  sad  memories  may  give  you, 
I  don't  care — what  you  have  been.  I 
know,  as  I  know  my  existence,  what  you 
are.  I  think — God  forgive  me  ! — that  I 
couldn't  believe  in  Divine  Goodness 
itself  if  I  lost  belief  in  you.  My  faith 
in  you  is  like  my  faith  in  the  beauty  of 
God's  world — in  His  stainless  sunshine 
— in  the  pure  stream  He  sends  for 
blessing — in  His  very  promises  of  im 
mortality.  See !"  he  added  in  a  low, 
reverent  tone  :  "if  every  particle  of  his 
torical  truth  set  up  in  support  of  the 
Christian  scheme  of  morals  and  eternal 
life  were  swept  away  to-morrow,  it  would 
still  be  to  me  the  revealment  of  love  and 
light  it  is — itself  its  own  witness.  And 
you  are  my  revelation  of  human  excel 
lence  and  gracious  refinement :  if  I  have 
you,  Ellinor,  I  have  holier  evidence  than 
all  human  testimony  can  give  about  you. 
But  it's  no  use,"  he  broke  out  after  a 
moment's  pause — "  it's  not  a  bit  of  use 
to  go  on.  I  can  feel  it  all — how  it 
comes  over  me  !— but  to  tell  it — " 

She  was  touched  to  the  heart-core. 
"  I  did  not  know,"  she  said,  "that  there 
was  such  nobility  of  faith  in  the  world." 
Then  she  relapsed  into  what  seemed  sad 
thoughts,  sighing.  At  last:  "There  is 
an  obstacle.  Do  not  fear,"  she  said, 
earnestly.  "  I  am  not  going  to  conceal 
anything  from  you :  trust  like  yours 
must  not  be  all  on  one  side.  Do  you 
think  I  would  let  you  speak  to  me  as 
you  have  spoken  to-day,  and  then  keep 
back  one  sin  I  may  have  committed  ? 
Do  you  think  I  would  hide  from  you 
now  what  reduced  me  to  poverty  and 
dependence  ?  I  meant  to  pass  my  life 
here  in  this  quiet  place,  God  and  my 
own  heart  the  only  judges  of  the  past. 
But  you  shall  know  all." 

Then,  after  a  pause,  she  told  him  of 
her  early  life  while  her  mother,  a  widow, 
yet  lived  ;  of  what  befell  her,  in  a  cold 
home,  at  cruel  hands,  after  her  mother's 
death  ;  of  a  terrible  crisis  in  her  life  that 
led  her  to  the  brink  of  despair  ;  then — 
what  she  had  already  told  Celia — of  her 
bitter  sufferings  and  her  final  rescue. 


Ethan  listened  as  one  might  listen  to 
tidings  from  the  next  world,  his  very 
soul  in  the  fascinating  story,  now  moved 
to  pity,  now  stirred  to  hot  indignation. 
And  when  Ellinor  closed  her  narrative 
by  saying,  with  a  deep  sigh  of  relief,  "  I 
have  kept  nothing  from  you,  and  now — 
thank  God  ! — I  am  here,  never,  never  to 
return,"  Ethan  broke  forth  : 

"And  is  that  the  obstacle  ?  The  world 
is  faithless  and  heartless  :  Love's  name 
is  profaned  by  the  base,  the  treacherous, 
the  inhuman  ;  and  that's  to  be  a  reason 
why  you  can't  marry  me  !  I  knew  it 
beforehand — what  it  must  all  amount  to 
— though  that  infamous  plot  passes  im 
agination.  What  of  it  ?  Can  you  never 
be  my  wife  because  worthless  creatures 
close  their  doors  against  you  ?" 

"  No,  that's  not  it.  God,  who  sees 
secret  causes  and  influences,  may  justify 
where  men  condemn.  At  all  events, 
now  that  I've  told  you  the  whole  truth, 
I  am  willing  to  abide  by  your  judgment." 

"  Thank  God  !" 

"  But  if  you  don't  think  it  cause 
enough  to  desist  from  seeking  me,  that 
my  relatives  regard  me  as  outcast — " 

"  I  entreat  you — 

"  Well,  I  shall  not  say  another  word 
about  it ;  but  that  is  not  the  obstacle  I 
spoke  of." 

"  It's  some  one  else  ?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

Such  a  sigh  of  relief!  Then,  eagerly: 
"What  is  it,  Ellinor?" 

"  If  ever  man  deserved  a  good  wife,  you 
do — one  who  would  make  you  a  bright, 
cheerful  home  —  one  who  would  see  to 
all  your  wants  and  comforts  —  one  who 
should  be  care-taker,  it  may  be,  of  your 
children,  looking  to  their  habits,  watching 
their  shortcomings  ;  in  short,  oversee 
ing  and  providing  for  your  household." 

"And  you,  with  your  business  tact 
and  admirable  judgment — you  can't  do 
this  ?" 

"  Had  God  so  willed,  it  might  have 
been.  Possibly,  possibly — but  I  mustn't 
shrink  from  looking  in  the  face  what  may 
be  the  inevitable." 

"The  inevitable  ?" 

"  Dr.  Meyrac  was  less  honest  to  you 
than  he  has  been  to  me." 


BETOND    THE  BREAKERS 


163 


Ethan  hung  on  her  words,  scarcely 
breathing.  Could  it  be  ?  Ellinor  went 
on :  "  The  good  man  knew  that  the 
truth  is  always  best,  and  he  told  me 
that  any  day  there  might  be  paralysis  of 
the  optic  nerve.  A  blind  wife — " 

"  Hush,  Ellinor.  It  is  in  God's  hands. 
Shall  we  rebel  against  Him  ?" 

"  I  do  not.  Once,  in  the  extremity  of 
misery,  I  might  have  done  so :  then 
there  came  to  me,  as  if  some  angel  had 
stooped  down  and  spoken,  the  words  : 
'Adversity  never  crushes  except  those 
who  rebel  against  it.'  I  do  not  rebel. 
But  God  intends  this  affliction  for  me 
alone.  It  must  never  fall  upon  you." 

"  It's  hazardous  to  say  what  God's 
intentions  are.  We  see  His  doings — 
that's  all.  He  brought  you  here.  It 
was  His  will  that  I  should  be  near  you 
year  after  year.  It  was  His  will  that 
out  of  all  this  glorious  world  of  His  I 
should  crave  one  blessing,  weighed 
against  which  all  else  is  dust  in  the  bal 
ance.  I  know  that  hearts  have  hunger 
ed  until  Death  stilled  the  yearning,  but 
if—  He  paused,  adding  at  last:  "You 
are  the  soul  of  truth,  Ellinor.  If  what 
seems  to  you  an  obstacle  did  not  exist — " 

"  You  shall  have  more  than  an  answer 
to  your  question.  If  in  one  year  from 
this  time  Dr.  Meyrac  thinks  the  danger 
has  passed — "  she  gave  him  her  hand. 

***** 

The  sunset  was  one  of  those  gorgeous 
manifestations  of  coloring  that  seem,  as 
we  gaze  into  their  magic  depths,  revela 
tions  from  another  world — an  effulgence 
of  which  no  human  skill  has  ever  trans 
ferred  to  canvas  even  .  the  shadow.  A 
consciousness  of  its  unearthly  beauty 
gushed  over  Ethan's  heart  as  never  in 
all  his  life  before — as  if  some  new  sense 
had  that  moment  been  born  within  him. 
He  turned  to  Ellinor :  » Have  you 
charity  for  extravagance  ?" 

She  looked  up  inquiringly,  and  he 
added  :  »  I  have  had,  of  late  :  there  is 
often  wisdom  underneath  it."  He  took 
from  an  inner  pocket  and  handed  to  her 
a  scrap  of  paper.  It  contained  but  a 
single  stanza  :* 

*  From  a  fugitive  poem  by  Mrs.  SARAH  T.  BOL- 
TON,  of  Indiana. 


"  There  was  no  music  in  the  rippling  stream, 

No  fragrance  in  the  rose  or  violet, 
No  warmth,  no  glory  in  the  noontide  beam, 
No  star  in  heaven,  dear  love,  until  we  met." 

"  Is  it  absurd  ?"  pursued  Ethan,  when 
he  saw  she  had  read  it.  «  Is  it  ridicu 
lous  ?  Yet  I  never  knew  what  the  glory 
of  sunset  was  till  now." 

As  they  walked  slowly  home  they 
gradually  came  back  to  earth.  They 
had  passed  the  age  of  thoughtlessness. 
Ellinor  was  twenty-five  and  Ethan  six 
years  older,  and  they  were  business  peo 
ple,  if  they  were  lovers. 

They  agreed  that,  except  to  Celia, 
nothing  should  be  said  of  their  engage 
ment  and  its  proviso.  Ethan  could  not 
help  touching  on  that  proviso  :  "  Whom 
would  you  cherish  the  more  dearly,  Elli 
nor — one  of  your  pupils  who  enjoyed  all 
her  senses,  or  one  who,  by  loss  of  sight, 
doubly  needed  your  protection  ?" 

"  A  year,  a  year !"  she  persisted : 
"  let  us  await  the  decree  of  God." 
Then,  as  they  passed  on,  nearing  the 
Elm  Walk,  her  eyes  following  his  wist 
ful  gaze  to  a  small  clump  of  shrubbery, 
the  soft  voice  added  in  a  lighter  tone  : 
"  Dream-cottages  are  pretty  things  in  the 
moonlight,  but  there  are  rainy  days,  you 
know,  Ethan." 

«  Ethan  I"     He  started. 

"  Besides,"  she  went  on,  "  even  if  all 
else  result— result  as  we  hope — there's 
the  furniture :  I've  a  small  purse  at 
home  that  perhaps  in  another  year  might 
be  heavy  enough — " 

"  In  another  year,  then.  Since  you've 
found  out  my  scriptural  name,  darling 
Ellinor,  I  am  content  to  work  and  to 
wait,  for  I  know  now — if  we  both  live — 
what  the  will  of  God  is." 

It  was  a  cheerful  party  that  evening 
at  Dr.  Meyrac's  tea-table. 


CHAPTER   XXX. 

AN   ARRIVAL. 

"  Vengeance  is  mine,  I  will  repay,  saith  the  Lord." 
— ROMANS. 

"  AN'  is  it  you,  Terence  dear,  at  last  ? 
WThat's  the  matter  ?  Ye  look  as  if  ye'd 
seen  a  spook." 


164 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


"  Worse  nor  that,  Norah.  Did  ye 
ever  hear  of  a  spook  stealin'  a  man's 
money  and  sendinrhim  to  jail  ?" 

Norah  turned  pale :  "  Sure  and  it 
isn't—?" 

"Yes  it  is  —  that  very  black-souled, 
infernal —  Ye  needn't  grip  the  babe, 
mavourneen  :  don't  scare  the  childher. 
It's  me  that  has  the  whip-hand  o'  the 
scoundrel  now." 

The  time  of  this  dialogue  was  three 
days  after  that  on  which  the  two  cousins 
parted  at  Mr.  Hartland's  gate — one  to 
return  with  crushed  heart  and  saddened 
life  ;  the  other  with  exultation,  in  a  tu 
mult  of  wildering  joy.  The  place  was  a 
room  in  the  Chiskauga  "  Hotel." 

No  Inns  now.  No  unpretending, 
homely  nooks  of  shelter  where,  when 
one  has  been  exposed  without  to  cold 
and  hunger  and  a  long  day's  fatigues, 
man  and  horse  may  be  taken  in  to 
warmth  and  quiet,  and  the  rider  may 
stretch  his  limbs  and  say,  «  Shall  I  not 
take  mine  ease  ?"  We  don't  care  about 
ease  in  these  days  of  rush  and  railroad 
ing,  except  such  as  is  to  be  had  in  a 
sleeping-car,  and  we  hate  simple  names. 
Glasgow,  the  most  populous  town  in 
Scotland,  has  her  Green,  and  Boston, 
the  modern  Athens,  her  Common  ;  but 
these  are  examples  of  extinct  rusticity. 
Modern  cities  rejoice  only  in  Hotels, 
noisy  and  glittering,  where  "  distinguish 
ed  guests"  are  entertained ;  and  in 
Parks,  gotten  up  at  a  cost  of  millions. 
And  why  should  not  Chiskauga — village 
if  it  was — be  allowed,  in  this  land  of 
liberty,  to  pick  a  French  term  (once 
designating  the  stately  mansions  of  the 
great)  from  the  fashionable  vocabulary, 
and  appropriate  the  same  to  her  humble 
house  of  entertainment  ? 

It  was  at  the  Chiskauga  Hotel,  then, 
that  our  old  friends,  Terence  and  Norah, 
with  their  two  children,  Dermot  and 
Kathleen,  now  found  themselves.  Kul- 
len  had  kept  his  promise  as  to  the  letter 
of  recommendation.  It  was  to  Mr. 
Sydenham,  whose  acquaintance  he  had 
made  while  traveling,  three  years  before, 
as  temperance  lecturer  in  Ohio.  Ter 
ence  had  given  up  his  tavern,  spent  a 
week  with  his  father-in-law  in  Cumber 


land  county,  and  as  soon  as  he  reached 
Chiskauga  had  presented  his  credentials. 
It  was  on  his  return  from  Rosebank, 
and  just  before  reaching  the  hotel,  that 
he  met  a  plain  but  nicely-kept  carriage 
drawn  by  two  sorrels. 

"  But  are  ye  sure  it  was  him  ?"  Norah 
asked,  under  her  breath. 

"Am  I  sure  that's  you,  acushla?  Am 
I  sure  this  is  little  Kathy  ?"  taking  her 
on  his  knee.  "  D'ye  think  them  poor 
craturs  that's  burnin'  in  hell  don't  know 
the  Divil  when  they  catch  a  sight  of 
him  ?" 

«  Ye  scare  the  babe,  Teddy,  with  sich 
talk." 

«  Well,  thin,  I  won't."  To  the  child  : 
"There  isn't  no  ugly  black  man  comin' 
to  take  daddy  or  my  Kathy :  they  don't 
have  ugly  black  men  here.  We're  gom' 
to  a  garden  a'most  as  nice  as  grand 
pap's,  where  ye  kin  play  to  yer  heart's 
contint,  my  little  darlint.  And,  Derry, 
there's  a  stream  o'  water  right  conva- 
nient  —  Kinshon  Creek's  the  name  it 
goes  by — where  ye  kin  sail  that  boat  o' 
yours." 

Dermot  clapped  his  hands. 

«  So  ye've  settled  it  all,  Terence.  Ye 
saw  Mr.  Sydenham  ?" 

«  Didn't  I  ?  A  gintleman,  every  inch 
of  him.  He  'minds  me  o'  the  Ould 
Country,  barrin'  he's  as  civil-spoken  as 
though  he  was  nobody  at  all — " 

"  Did  ye  tell  him  about  the  trial  and 
the  jail  and  all  ?" 

«  An'  what  for  shouldn't  I  tell  him  the 
whole,  out  o'  the  face  ?  It's  no  more 
nor  right  for  him  to  know  where  I've 
been ;  and  then  maybe  Mr.  Kullen  wrote 
to  him  a'ready.  So  I  tould  everything, 
both  about  me  and  you.  Says  I  :  <  Mr. 
Sydenham,  if  she  don't  make  the  beau- 
tifulest  butter  that's  ever  been  set  on 
your  table,  we  don't  want  a  cint,  nayther 
she  nor  me.'  That  settled  it." 

"  So  ye'r  to  manage  the  farm  and  me 
the  dairy,  and  we're  to  have  the  place  ?" 

"  The  house  and  the  garden  and  a 
potato  patch  and  a  cow's  milk,  wood  to 
keep  the  pot  boilin'  and  the  childher 
warm,  and  sixty  dollars  a  month.  It 
don't  pay  like  the  bar,  Norah,  but  then, 
ye  know,  I  promised  Mr.  Kullen — " 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


165 


«  Oh,  Teddy,  to  talk  of  the  bar  !  an' 
me  and  the  childher  goin'  to  live  wi'  the 
flowers  and  the  green  fields  round  us, 
and  the  blessed  cows  to  milk  and  the 
lovely  butter  to  make,  and  everything 
just  like  it  used  to  be  when  you  came 
over  from  ould  Mr.  Richards'  in  the 
gloamin'  !  But  ye've  forgot  that." 

Not  quite,  it  seemed.  And  it  was 
very  well  there  was  nobody  there  just 
then  but  the  children — nobody  to  laugh 
at  the  foolish  fellow  when  he  dropped 
Kathleen  in  a  hurry  and  stopped  short 
his  wife's  panegyric  on  farm-life  by  a 
kiss  very  much  of  the  old  Cumberland 
county  savor. 

«  Thin  it's  all  jist  right,  mavourneen," 
he  said.  "  I  was  sort  o'  tired  o'  them 
stone  pavements  and  brick  walls  and 
white  shutters,  any  way.  It's  a  snug 
shealin'  enough,  Norah  —  four  good 
rooms,  forby  the  kitchen.  The  ould 
coachman  had  it,  but  his  wife  died  last 
month,  and  he's  sort  o'  lonely,  and  we'll 
have  to  give  him  a  room.  Mr.  Syden- 
ham's  to  pay  us  four  dollars  a  week  for 
his  board  ;  that'll  help  some,  and  maybe 
the  poor  man  won't  eat  no  great  dale. 
I  think  he  takes  it  hard,  the  ould  wo 
man's  death.  I'm  not  misdoubtin'  but 
what  we've  done  the  right  thing,  if  that 
divil  is  here." 

The  farm  faded  from  Norah's  imagi 
nation,  the  bright  look  from  her  face, 
and  anxious  misgivings  about  Cassiday, 
the  perjured  witness,  clouded  counte 
nance  and  thought. 

« Ye  came  here  to  please  me,  Teddy 
asthore,  and  ye  haven't  forgot  them 
times  when  ye  used  to  set  by  the  kitchen 
fire  and  tell  father  stories  about  ould 
Ireland  to  please  him  for  my  sake. 
Maybe  ye'll  do  somethin'  more  for 
me." 

"  Ye're  a  darlint,  Norah,  and  so  was 
yer  ould  father  to  let  me  have  ye.  Sorra 
thing  can  ye  ask  me — in  rason,  that  is — 
but  what  I'll  do." 

"It's  for  your  sake,  Teddy,  and  the 
childher's.  I  dreamed  last  night  about 
them  days  when  ye  was  in  jail,  and  me 
like  a  bird  wi'  a  broken  wing  that  want 
ed  to  go  off  somewhere  and  die  :  it's 
awful  to  think  of;  but  then  —  ye  can 


niver  tell — it  might  be  God  that  sint  ye 
there  :  Mr.  Kullen  thought  He  did,  to 
keep  ye  from  helpin'  on  drinkin',  and 
from  keepin'  company  wi'  bad  men  like 
that  Cassidy,  and  to  bring  ye  out  here 
where  ye  can  hear  the  birds  sing,  and 
where  ye  can  let  them  childher  run  out 
and  not  find  them,  the  next  minit  wi' 
the  riff-raff  of  the  street,  playin'  in  the 
gutter.  Who  knows  but  what  it  was 
the  Lord  put  it  in  that  bad  man's  heart 
to  harm  ye — all  for  yer  good  ?" 

"  Sure,  an'  it  wouldn't  be  God  that 
would  put  sich  a  thought  in  a  man  •. 
that's  the  Divil's  work." 

«  I  do'  know,"  said  Norah,  thought 
fully  :  "He  tould  Moses  he  was  goin'  to 
harden  King  Pharaoh's  heart  and  them 
Egyptians,  afore  they  got  drownded  ; 
and  he  did  harden  it  awful ;  and  that 
was  the  way  the  childher  o'  Israel  got 
to  the  promised  land.  I  was  readin'  it 
last  week,  and  there's  nothin'  about  the 
Divil  there." 

Norah  was  getting  out  of  her  depth 
in  the  Red  Sea  of  theology,  and  Ter 
ence  was  afraid  to  follow  her.  He  tried 
to  bring  her  back  to  the  dry  land  of 
practical  business  :  "  An'  what  was  it  ye 
wanted  me  to  do  for  ye  ?" 

But  Norah  was  not  quite  ready  to 
answer  that  question  yet.  "  Cassiday 
was  a  desperate  wicked  man,"  she  said, 
"but  I  don't  think  he  was  wickeder  nor 
Pharaoh  :  he  niver  wanted  to  kill  Derry 
nor  nobody  else,  that  I  hearn  of;  but 
Pharaoh,  he  tried  to  murder  all  the  boys 
them  Israel  women  had  jist  as  soon  as 
the  poor  babes  was  born,  and  niver  to 
leave  them  nothin'  but  the  girls.  Ef  it 
had  been  Derry,  what  would  ye  have 
done,  Terence  ?" 

"  Sure  an'  wouldn't  I  have  shot  the 
bloody  blackguard,  ef  I  could  ?" 

"  I  expect  ye  would.  But  ye  see  God 
niver  tould  the  childher  o'  Israel  to  shoot 
Pharaoh.  He  took  it  in  hand  himself, 
and  drownded  him.  So  you  jist  let  that 
vagabone  alone,  Terence.  Ef  God  wants 
him  drownded,  it's  easy  done.  There's 
plenty  o'  them  steamboats  blows  up 
every  day  ;  or  maybe  he'll  go  sailin'  on 
that  bit  water  we  saw  as  we  came  in, 
and  the  boat  '11  tip  over.  Any  way,  it's 


1 66 


BEYOND    THE   BREAKERS. 


good  the  rascal's  done  ye,  though  he 
was  minded  to  do  ye  harm  :  ef  he  hadn't 
sworn  agin  ye,  ye'd  niver  have  got  to 
no  promised  land  like  this.  I'm  sure 
it's  far  better  here  nor  it  was  in  the  wil 
derness,  with  nothin'  but  manna,  or  may 
be  some  birds,  to  eat  all  day.  We're  to 
have  a  cow's  milk,  and  they  say  there's 
bee  trees  in  them  woods  out  here  in  the 
West,  that  a  man  can  cut  down  ef  he 
wants  a  bucket  o'  nice  honeycomb  ; — and 
thin,  ye  know,  there's  the  garden  besides, 
and  the  potato-patch.  And  sure  the  Is 
raelites  niver  had  no  potatoes,  and  niver 
came  to  nothin'  better,  after  they  got 
done  with  the  wilderness,  nor  milk  and 
honey.  Now,  Teddy— there's  a  darlint ! 
— let  bygones  be  bygones  :  let  the  ugly 
spalpeen  go,  and  let  God  have  his  own 
way,  and  don't  ye  be  getting  yerself  into 
another  scrape  for  nothin'  at  all,  at  all: 
that's  what  I  wanted  to  ax  ye." 

Terence  reflected:  "It's  nothin' bet 
ter  nor  to  be  kilt  over  the  head  with  a 
good  shillalah  the  rascal  deserves  ;  but 
thin  ef  we  all  got  our  desarts,  maybe 
there's  some  of  us  might  come  out  sort 
o'  badly.  I  don't  niver  like  to  think 
much  about  keepin'  them  men  drinkin' 
half  the  night,  instead  o'  comin'  decently 
to  bed  to  you,  Norah,  an'  you  lying  there 
wakin'  and  waitin'  for  me.  I  don't  jist 
think  God  liked  that.  So  maybe,  as  ye 
say,  I'd  best  leave  Him  to  manage  Cassi- 
day,  or  Delorny,  or  whatever  name  the 
Divil's  cub  has  picked  up  by  this  time. 


But  it's  mighty  aggravatin'-like  to  see 
the  mansworn  rowdy  set  up  there  wi'  a 
bran-new  coat  and  hat,  drivin'  the  pret 
tiest  pair  o'  sorrels  ye  ever  set  eyes  on, 
Norah  ;  and  me  that  knows  all  the  time 
where  the  money  came  from  that  made 
him  a  dacent  man  to  look  at." 

"  But  ye  niver  can  get  back  that  money 
without  you  go  into  them  law-courts 
again  ;  and  I  think  that  would  kill  me," 
said  Norab,  with  a  shudder. 

"  Sure  an'  didn't  I  tell  ye,  acushla,  I'd 
let  the  scoundrel  run,  for  your  sake  and 
the  babes  ?  Thin  I've  got  no  time  to 
go  after  him  wi'  the  shillalah  ;  for  that 
house  of  ourn's  is  all  ready,  and  I  made 
a  fire  in  the  kitchen,  and  the  ould  coach 
man  said  he'd  see  to  it  till  we  came  on. 
I'll  go  seek  a  dray  to  take  the  trunks 
and  the  plenishin'." 

"  There  ain't  no  drays  here,  daddy," 
said  that  observant  young  urchin,  Der- 
mot,  who  had  been  exploring  Chiskauga 
while  his  father  was  gone. 

"  Well,  thin,  a  cart  or  a  wagon,  or 
whatever  they  carry  things  with  in  these 
parts." 

Before  evening  they  were  installed  in 
their  new  habitation.  And  Derry  was 
sailing  his  boat  on  the  creek,  and  Kath 
leen,  with  gaze  of  infant  delight,  was 
watching  Norah  milk  "them  blessed 
cows,"  warm  recollections  of  a  home 
stead  in  Pennsylvania  flushing  the  moth 
er's  cheek  and  tears  of  pleasure  dimming 
her  eyes  the  while. 


PART    IX. 


CHAPTER   XXXI. 

GRANGULA'S  MOUNT. 

"  Charity  for  his  fellow-creatures  arrested  half  his 
words." — MADAME  DE  SEVIGN£,  speaking  of  the  .good 
Monsieur  de  Gourville. 

ON  the  lower  portion  of  the  lawn  in 
front  of  Sydenham's  house  stood  a 
stately  elm,  which,  when  the  axe  leveled 
the  surrounding  forest,  the  woodcutter 
had  spared.  Under  its  broad  shelter,  in 
full  view  of  the  village,  sat  two  ladies — 
Mrs.  Clymer  on  a  rustic  chair,  calmly 
knitting,  and  our  friend  Leoline  on  a 
camp-stool,  a  small  table  with  drawing 
materials  before  her. 

The  latter  seemed  greatly  discom 
posed.  "  It's  no  use,  Aunt  Hannah," 
throwing  down  her  pencil :  "  I  can't 
draw  a  steady  line  this  morning.  I  wish 
some  old  man  would  marry  that  horrid 
creature  and  carry  her  off  to  California." 

"  Thee  shouldn't  talk  so,  Lela  dear. 
We  should  make  much  allowance  for 
Catherine  Wolfgang.  Thee  is  too  young 
to  remember  much  of  her  husband,  but 
she  must  have  been  sorely  tried  with 
that  man." 

"  If  his  tongue  was  half  as  abusive  as 
hers,  I  think  she  must,  auntie.  'Seems 
to  me  if  we  have  suffering  ourselves,  that 
ought  to  make  us  feel  compassion  for 
the  sufferings  of  others." 

"Yes.  But  she  didn't  know  Celia 
was  within  hearing,  and  had  no  intention 
of  hurting  her  feelings." 

«  She's  too  cowardly  to  say  it  to  her 
face  :  these  creatures  always  are.  They 
haven't  a  bit  of  real  courage.  She  only 
abused  the  darling  child,  and  insulted 
the  memory  of  her  parents,  behind  her 
back." 

"  Maybe  it  wasn't  so  bad  as  thee 
thinks.  People  sometimes  exaggerate 
without  intending  it." 

"  I  wonder  if  there  ever  was  anybody 
you  could  not  find  some  excuse  for, 
aunt." 

"  We  all  need  forgiveness,  Lela." 

«  More  or  less.     But  I  think  if  I  had 


ten  thousand  Aunt  Hannahs,  just  like 
you,  they  wouldn't  need  as  much  for 
giveness  for  the  sins  they  committed  all 
their  lives  through,  as  Mrs.  Wolfgang 
needs  for  the  backbiting  she  does  with 
that  bitter  tongue  of  hers  in  a  single 
year.  I'm  wicked  myself,  I  know :  if 
that  woman  had  waited  for  Jean  to  carry 
her  out  to  the  garden  gate,  I'd  have 
liked,  of  all  things  in  the  world,  to  be 
passing,  just  then,  on  the  other  side  of 
the  way  :  it  would  have  been  a  sight  to 
see.  But  I'm  not  vicious  :  I  don't  wish 
anybody  any  harm  :  if  Mrs.  Wolfgang 
were  on  her  deathbed,  and  had  nobody 
else,  I'd  be  willing  to  sit  up  with  her  all 
night,  provided  they  didn't  insist  on  my 
crying  if  she  died  next  morning.  Then, 
you  know,  auntie,  I've  heard  you  repeat 
the  texts  about  breaking  the  bruised 
reed  and  crushing  the  soul  already  nigh 
to  perishing.  I  think  anybody  who 
would  do  that  is  too  mean  and  cruel  to 
live  in  this  world." 

"  God  does  not  think  so." 

Hannah  Clymer  was  almost  startled 
out  of  her  equanimity  when  the  warm 
hearted  girl  sprang  from  her  seat,  threw 
her  arms  round  her  neck  and  kissed  her  : 
"You're  an  angel,  auntie,  that's  the 
truth — an  angel  with  a  good-for-nothing 
niece.  I  wonder  I  don't  contrive  to  be 
better,  with  you  in  the  house  all  the  time." 

"  Do  I  ever  complain  of  thee,  dear 
child  ?" 

"  Never,  nor  of  Mrs.  Wolfgang  either. 
Ah,  here  comes  papa.  Who  is  that  he 
has  just  parted  from  ?" 

«  Some  one  who  brought  him  a  letter 
of  introduction  this  morning." 

"  Who  is  it,  papa  ?"  as  he  came  across 
to  them. 

"An  Irishman.  He  and  his  wife  are 
coming  to  live  in  the  coachman's  house 
and  manage  the  farm  and  dairy.  You  re 
member  Mr.  Kullen,  Hannah  ?" 

"  The  temperance  lecturer  ?  I  remem 
ber  him  well." 

"  He    recommends   this   man   highly. 
167 


1 63 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


The  poor  fellow,  it  seems,  suffered  three 
months'  imprisonment  on  a  false  charge. 
Kullen  proved  his  innocence,  and  he 
was  released  on  the  spot.  A  hard  case." 

" This  foolish  child,"  said  Mrs.  Cly- 
mer,  with  her  kind  smile,  "  has  been 
grieving  so  sorely  over  another  hard 
case,  this  morning,  that  she  has  scarcely 
touched  her  drawing." 

"Celia  Pembroke's?  Mrs.  Wolf 
gang—" 

"  Ah,  you've  heard  of  it,  papa  ?  And 
you  said  nothing  to  me  about  it  ?" 

"  Why  should  I  vex  you,  my  child,  by 
repeating  the  coarse  slanders  of  a  cruel 
woman  ?" 

"  Poor,  dear  Celia  !  And  no  father, 
no  mother,  nobody  to  stand  up  for  her  !" 

"Except  you,  my  child,  and  sister 
Hannah  ;  and  myself,  if  you  think  me 
worth  counting  ;  and  the  Meyracs,  and 
the  Hartlands — the  uncle  has  come  out 
most  creditably — and  Mr.  Harper,  and 
the  Creightons,  and  ever  so  many  more 
of  those  whose  good  opinion  is  worth 
having.  Mrs.  Wolfgang  has  a  party  who 
hold  with  her — I'm  very  sorry  it  num 
bers  as  many  as  it  does  —  people  who 
like  gossip  seasoned  with  scandal,  and 
take  comfort  in  the  misfortunes  of  others. 
They  will  run  Celia  down,  of  course  ; 
talk  of  pride  having  a  fall,  and  justify 
Movvbray  in  casting  her  off — that  will  be 
their  version  of  it — because  her  father 
deserved  the  penitentiary  and  left  a  stain 
on  her  birth." 

"  Mowbray  !"  said  Leoline,  her  eyes 
flashing — "is  that  broken  off?" 

"So  Ethan  tells  me  —  by  Celia  her 
self." 

«  Brave  girl !      I  want  to  kiss  her." 

"  Mowbray  behaved  badly  —  some 
jealous  quarrel,  I  believe — " 

"Just  like  him;  all  a  pretence  to 
shirk  out.  I'm  so  glad  !  I'm  scarcely 
sorry  Celia  lost  her  money,  since  that 
selfish  Adonis  is  gone  along  with  it." 

"You  are  harsh  in  your  judgments, 
my  child." 

"  So  Aunt  Hannah  says  ;  and  as  both 
of  you  agree  about  it,  no  doubt  it's  true. 
But  consider,  papa.  How  would  you 
like  me  to  marry  a  young  man  who  had 
made  up  his  mind  it  was  better  to  do 


nothing  in  this  world  except  to  live  on 
the  money  you  might  be  able  to  give 
me  ?  How  would  you  like  a  son-in-law 
without  either  trade  or  business  or  pro 
fession — the  laziest  young  fellow  about 
town,  who  spent  half  his  time  riding  a 
horse  he  couldn't  afford  to  keep,  while 
his  mother  was  slaving  at  home,  teach 
ing  school  and  keeping  house  too  ?  I 
won't  say  a  word  of  the  scandal  about 
Ellen  Tyler :  I  despise  such  things,  and 
wouldn't  hear  them  if  I  could  possibly 
help  it.  But  what  is  he  good  for,  papa  ? 
What  has  he  ever  done  in  this  world  ? 
What  is  he  ever  likely  to  do,  except  to 
wear  kid  gloves  and  a  stylish  necktie  ? 
Compare  him  to  Ethan  or  to  Mr.  Creigh- 
ton —  By  the  way,  I  wonder  if  it  wasn't 
Creighton  he  was  jealous  of?" 

"  Possibly.  But,  Lela,  let  me  advise 
you  not  to  meddle  with  your  friend's 
love-affairs.  I  believe  that  Celia  will 
not  marry  Mowbray  now,  and  I  am  not 
sorry  for  it :  there  is  too  much  truth  in 
what  you  say  about  him  ;  but  she  loves 
him  still,  depend  upon  it,  and  could  not 
bear  a  disparaging  word  said  to  his  dis 
credit.  And  pray  don't  go  recommend 
ing  anybody  else  that  you  might  think — " 

"  Papa,  what  do  you  take  me  for  ?" 

"  For  a  dear,  kind,  impulsive  child, 
that  is  so  indignant  against  wrong,  and 
so  eager  to  help  her  friends  and  make 
them  happy,  that  I  never  do  know  what 
strange  thing  she  will  do  next." 

"Well,  I'll  try  to  behave  well  this 
time,  papa,"  said  Leoline,  recommencing 
her  drawing.  "  Please  tell  me  how  you 
like  Mr.  Harper's  church." 

"  I  think  you've  done  the  church  cor 
rectly  enough,  but  I  can't  say  so  much  for 
the  steeple.  You  must  have  been  think 
ing  of  Celia  when  you  drew  these  lines?" 

"  No,  papa  ;  it  was  not  that." 

"Your  steeple  leans  all  to  the  left. 
Look  at  it." 

"It's  not  my  steeple.  If  I  had  built 
it,  I'd  have  made  a  better  job  of  it. 
Here,  papa,"  handing  him  a  large  opera- 
glass,  "judge  for  yourself." 

"  Upon  my  word,  you  have  a  quick 
eye,  Lela." 

"  You  see  it  does  lean  on  one  side — 
to  the  north.  The  builder  ought  to  have 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


169 


been  ashamed  of  himself.  It's  a  crooked 
steeple,  and  nothing  else."  Then,  with 
mock  gravity:  "'The  truth  of  history 
must  be  vindicated,'  as  somebody  said 
in  the  newspaper  the  other  day.  As  a 
crooked  steeple  it  shall  go  down  to  pos 
terity  in  my  drawing." 

«  Now,  Lela  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Clymer, 
in  her  gentle,  coaxing  tone  of  remon 
strance,  "  why  cannot  thee  let  the  poor 
steeple  alone  ?" 

This  was  too  much  for  the  young 
girl,  and  even  Sydenham  joined  in  her 
merriment.  But  the  old  lady  took  it  so 
good-naturedly  that  Lela,  repentant,  ex 
claimed,  "Well,  I'll  forgive  the  steeple 
for  your  sake,  Aunt  Hannah  :  I'll  rub 
out  the  builder's  transgression  and  set 
his  work  upright,  as  all  men  and  all 
steeples  should  be." 

"After  that  good  deed  is  done,  my 
child,"  said  Sydenham,  "  I  want  you  to 
walk  down  to  the  village  and  invite  Celia 
to  join  our  riding  party  this  afternoon,  as 
soon  as  school  is  dismissed." 

"Yes,  papa:   I'm  so  glad." 

"  What  with  the  communication  from 
Cranstoun,  then  that  scene  at  the  Mey- 
racs,  and  finally  this  rupture  with  Mow- 
bray,  no  wonder  if  the  poor  child  feels 
miserable  and  forlorn.  The  ride,  at  all 
events,  will  do  her  good." 

When  Celia  rode  over,  she  found  that 
Lucille  Meyrac  had  come  to  practice 
duets  with  Leoline  ;  so  the  latter  was 
unable  to  join  the  riding  party. 

"You  prefer  the  forest  road?"  said 
Sydenham  to  Celia. 

"  "  Very  much."  She  was  quiet,  but 
with  a  look  of  much  suffering  and  de 
pression. 

Sydenham  tried  to  win  her  from  sad 
thoughts,  relating  to  her  Aunt  Hannah's 
compassionate  plea  for  the  steeple,  then 
branching  off  to  talk  of  the  school  and 
of  Ellinor  Ethelridge.  "She  is  like  a 
sister  to  me,"  said  Celia. 

"It  is  good  for  both  that  you  are  as 
sociated,"  said  Sydenham.  "  I  am  not 
acquainted  with  the  details  of  her  early 
history,  but  I  know  it  is  a  melancholy 
one.  Adversity  has  given  her  strength 
of  mind  and  courage." 


"  I'm  so  weak  and  worthless  !  I  have 
no  fortitude." 

"  The  best  of  us  have  days  when  the 
heart  asks  if  there  be  any  sorrow  like 
unto  ours." 

"  Ellinor  has  suffered  for  more  than  I, 
yet  she—" 

"Did  not  win  the  battle  in  a  day. 
Darkness  and  tempest  must  be.  The 
soul  must  cry  out  sometimes  in  the 
gloom  —  as  poor  Burns  did  when  the 
burden  was  more  than  he  could  bear — 

'  O  life  !  thou  art  a  galling  load, 

Along  a  rough,  a  weary  road, 

To  wretches  such  as  I  1'  " 

Celia  started.  The  very  words  that 
had  been  haunting  her  ever  since  that 
terrible  scene  with  Mowbray  !  And  the 
tears  rose,  do  what  she  would. 

"  To  all  of  us  the  road  is  barred  some 
times,"  Sydenham  added,  after  a  pause  ; 
"  but  how  can  we  tell  whether  it  may  not 
be  in  mercy  ?" 

Celia  thought  of  Sydenham's  widowed 
life,  and  of  all  the  good  he  had  done. 
Gradually  she  became  calmer  :  but  little 
more  was  said  till  they  reached  Gran- 
gula's  Mount,  the  scene  of  Creighton 
and  Emberly's  political  discussion.  A 
little  way  down  its  eastern  slope,  as  our 
readers  may  remember,  was  a  sparse 
clump  of  umbrageous  forest  trees.  Pa 
triarchs  were  they,  that  had  survived  • 
the  fate  of  their  companions — isolated 
patriarchs  ;  not,  as  their  fellows  still  in 
the  crowd  of  the  dense  forest,  shooting 
up  tall  and  slender  and  restricted  in  their 
spread,  like  the  constant  indwellers  of  a 
populous  city,  cramped,  by  the  crush 
and  press  around  them,  in  scope  of  ac 
tion  and  circle  of  habit ;  but  spreading 
erratically  out,  like  the  lone-dwelling 
pioneer,  who  has  taken  root  apart  from 
his  fellows,  and  whose  uncribbed  notions 
and  doings  dilate  to  the  ample  propor 
tions  of  the  wild  and  exuberant  nature 
in  which  they  grow. 

It  was  one  of  those  afternoons,  typi 
cal  of  human  life,  when  detached  clouds 
flit  across  the  sky  and  the  landscape  lies 
in  chequered  patches  of  light  and  shade. 
The  riders  drew  rein  and  turned  to  the 
charming  scene.  "  Shall  we  rest  a 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


while  ?"  said  Sydenliam.  "  I  seldom 
pass  this  spot,  especially  on  so  beautiful 
an  evening  as  this,  without  stopping  to 
enjoy  a  prospect  that  never  tires." 

Celia  assenting,  they  dismounted  : 
Sydenham  made  fast  each  horse's  bridle- 
rein  to  a  depending  branch,  then  led  the 
way  to  the  shelter  of  the  grove. 

Sydenham  had  too  much  wisdom  and 
delicacy  to  advert  to  Mowbray.  Though 
he  well  knew  that  the  girl's  disappoint 
ment  in  her  lover  weighed  far  heavier 
than  loss  of  property  or  even  of  name, 
yet  he  knew  also  that  time  is  the  only 
styptic  for  a  bleeding  heart.  He  sought 
to  divert  her  thoughts  from  what,  for  the 
nonce,  admitted  of  no  cure.  When  they 
were  seated,  "Celia,"  he  added,  "have 
you  ever  felt  what  a  good  thing  it  is  to 
get  away  from  one's  fellow-creatures  now 
and  then,  and  renew  acquaintance  with 
inanimate  Nature  ?" 

"  Of  late  more  then  formerly.  I  used 
to  prefer — who  is  it  that  so  expresses  it  ? 
— having  some  one  to  whom  to  say  how 
sweet  solitude  is." 

"  Yes  ;  it  is  with  years  the  conviction 
comes  that  to  be  alone,  sometimes,  with 
Nature  in  her  beauty  not  only  refreshes 
the  feelings,  but  also  invigorates  thought. 
I  don't  know  what  world  it  is  that  Young 
bids  us  shut  out  before  we  can  wake  to 
reason  and  let  her  reign  alone.  If  he 
spoke  of  the  noisy  world  as  it  swarms 
in  the  thoroughfares  of  men,  good  and 
well  ;  but  if  he  meant  such  a  glorious 
world  as  spreads  out  before  us  here,  he 
is  quite  wrong.  It  is  precisely  before  so 
grand  a  tribunal  as  this  that  the  mind 
can  grapple  with  the  sublimest  questions. 
If  I  had  to  argue  against  a  man's  pre 
judices,  I'd  like  to  undertake  the  task, 
not  within  the  four  walls  of  a  room,  but 
where  we  are  now  sitting.  I'm  glad  we 
came  here  this  evening,  Celia." 

"  Have  you  some  prejudice  of  mine 
to  combat  ?" 

"  Perhaps." 

The  color  rose  in  her  cheeks. 

"You  have  guessed  aright,"  Syden 
ham  continued.  "It  is  of  your  mother 
and  your  own  birth  and  position  that  I 
wish  to  speak  to  you." 

Celia  struggled  for  composure.  "  Speak 


to  me  freely,"  she  said  at  last.  "  I  know 
it  is  right  that  it  should  be  talked  over." 

"Tell  me  how  you  feel  about  thi? 
matter.  It  grieves  you  more  than  your 
loss  of  property  ?" 

"  Much  more.  I  confess  I  have  felt 
dreadfully  about  it.  I  can  scarcely  tell 
you  how :  as  if  I  had  been  debased,  de 
graded  —  as  if  every  one  had  obtained 
the  right  to  look  down  upon  me,  to  de 
spise  me.  The  Pariahs  of  India  came 
into  my  mind." 

"  Now  I  can  answer  your  question. 
I  have  a  prejudice  of  }  ours  to  combat." 

"  Is  it  a  prejudice  ?  Yet  we  must 
often  suffer  for  the  evil-doing  of  a  parent. 
Are  we  not  told  that  God  visits  the  sins 
of  the  fathers  on  the  children  ?" 

"  The  sentiment  is  Jewish,  not  Chris 
tian  :  you  would  look  for  such  an  one  in 
vain  among  Christ's  teachings.  But  I 
will  answer  you  more  directly.  In  one 
sense — often  in  a  terrible  one — it  is  most 
true  that  the  sins  of  the  fathers  are 
visited  on  the  children." 

"Just  so." 

"It  is  patent  to  all  of  us  that  a  child 
neglected  by  ignorant  or  vicious  parents 
often  suffers  through  life  the  penalty  of  a 
crime  or  a  neglect  not  his  own.  And 
the  curse  may  descend  more  surely  still. 
A  parent  persisting  in  a  career  of  reck 
less  dissipation  may  transmit  to  his  off 
spring  terrible  disease.  Nay,  phrenolo 
gists  assert,  and  I  partly  believe  it,  that 
violent  passions  or  vicious  inclinations, 
which  years  of  indulgence  have  stamped 
on  the  nature,  may  go  down — a  frightful 
inheritance  !  —  from  parent  to  innocent 
child.  If  there  be  one  motive,  outweigh 
ing  all  personal  considerations,  that  ought 
to  warn  off  from  excess  of  body  or  in 
temperance  of  mind,  it  is  to  be  found  in 
the  reflection  that  we  are  becoming  the 
deadly  enemies  of  our  posterity — that 
we  are  consigning  to  misery  or  vice  the 
beings  to  whom  we  have  imparted  ex 
istence.  In  this  sense  well  may  we  be 
reminded  that  God  visits  on  the  chil 
dren  the  fathers'  sins." 

"  I  see  that.  Then,  since  so  many 
thousands  must  suffer  for  the  miscon 
duct  of  their  parents,  why  not  I  for  the 
sin  of  mine  ?" 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


171 


"  How  are  you  to  suffer  ?  By  God's 
fiat  ?  Has  He  doomed  you  to  misery  ? 
Did  your  parents  neglect  or  mislead  you  ? 
No  :  from  the  wise  training  of  one  or 
both—" 

"  Oh,  of  both,  Mr.  Sydenham  —  of 
both.  Let  my  father's  misconduct  in 
other  respects  have  been  what  it  may, 
to  me  he  was  always  the  kindest,  the 
best — "  She  stopped.  Warm  recollec 
tions  of  past  days  melted  her  heart  and 
filled  her  eyes,  but  she  mastered  her 
emotion  and  resumed  :  "  Mr.  Sydenham, 
I  cannot  tell  you  what  consolation  I  feel 
in  the  favorable  opinion  of  me  you  ex 
pressed  the  other  day  ;  but  I  should  be 
most  unworthy  of  it  if  I  could  forget 
that  I  owe  whatever  good  may  be  in  me 
not  to  my  mother  only,  but  also  to  the 
care  and  instructions  of  my  dear,  dear 
father." 

"  Your  parents,  then,  both  trained  you. 
in  the  way  you  should  go.  You  have 
inherited,  chiefly  perhaps  from  a  mother's 
gifted  organization,  health,  beauty,  talent, 
good  dispositions.  If  you  are  to  suffer 
for  a  father's  sin,  it  will  be  man's  doing, 
not  God's." 

"  But  if  God  does  visit  on  children 
parents'  sins,  can  it  be  wicked  in  man  to 
do  so  ?" 

"  Yes,  Celia,  wicked.  You  shall  judge. 
Suppose  that  in  the  school  you  are  now 
teaching  you  find  some  scholar  ill-nur 
tured,  untrained,  sickly  too  perhaps,  suf 
fering  sorely  for  a  parent's  faults.  Have 
you  a  right  to  add,  by  your  act,  to  the 
heavy  burden  ?  Have  you  a  right,  be 
cause  the  sins  pf  others  may  have  been 
visited  on  that  poor  creature,  to  neglect 
or  vilify  him  ?" 

"  Oh,  none,  none  !  I  see  it  would  be 
wickedness.  I  feel  that  such  a  cast 
away  should  have  more  kindness  than 
those  who  have  been  favored  by  Nature 
and  Fortune." 

"Your  sense  of  justice  informs  you 
what  is  your  duty  to  others.  Be  not 
less  just  to  yourself.  Because  of  your 
father's  misconduct  you  will  probably 
lose  a  comfortable  fortune  ;  but  whatever 
you  suffer,  on  the  same  score,  beyond 
that,  you  will  suffer  through  the  base 
prejudice,  or  the  baser  malevolence,  of 


worthless  people,  just  as  any  other  in 
nocent  person  might." 

"  But  there  is  so  much  prejudice  in 
the  world,  especially  on  this  very  point." 

"  It  is  daily  diminishing.  But  you  are 
right,  Celia :  there  is  much  of  it  still. 
Try  to  listen  to  it  as  you  do  to  the 
growling  of  a  thunderstorm  or  the  pat 
tering  of  sleet  against  your  windows. 
Try  to  encounter  it  as  you  would  any 
other  evil  thing — envy,  malice,  hatred 
and  all  uncharitableness.  That  which 
is  unmerited  may,  by  a  brave  heart,  al 
ways  be  borne.  Lift  up  your  brow  with 
a  noble  confidence,  and  if  offence  come, 
bear  in  mind  that  the  woe  and  the 
shame  attach  not  to  you,  but  to  the  of 
fender.  Be  independent — how  well  you 
can  afford  it ! — of  the  self-installed  arbiter. 
Even  in  the  slanderer's  evil  pride  there 
may  be  real  benefit  to  you.  If  any  one, 
puffed  up  with  self-righteousness  or 
blinded  by  false  conceptions  of  right  and 
wrong,  seek  to  disparage  you  because 
of  your  birth,  and  assume  that  you  ought 
to  stand  aside — he  or  she,  spotless-born, 
being  holier  than  you — remember  that 
any  such  Pharisee  is  utterly  unfit  to  be 
an  associate  of  yours.  If  by  any  such 
you  are  avoided,  how  great  the  gain  to 
you !  The  good-for-nothing  are  often 
winnowed  from  our  acquaintance  by  what 
the  world  calls  adversity." 

The  conversation  continued  for  some 
time  longer  in  this  strain.  Then  they 
began  to  talk  over  the  business  points 
in  the  case,  and  Celia  related  all  that 
had  passed  between  her  and  Cranstoun, 
showing  his  letter,  which  she  had  been 
looking  over  just  before  she  started  from 
home. 

Sydenham  read  it  in  silence.  "  It  is 
his  writing,"  he  said  at  last:  "one  must 
believe  one's  eyes.  Well,  the  frankness 
of  that  man's  villainy  is  refreshing.  Do 
you  know  what  he  expected,  Celia  ?" 

"  No." 

"  Either  that  you  would  marry  him, 
or  buy  him  off:  I  don't  think  it  matter 
ed  much  to  him  which.  And  I  verily 
believe  the  scoundrel  thinks  you  will  do 
the  one  or  the  other  yet  before  the  week 
is  out.  What  a  sealed  book  to  such  a 
rascal  is  an  honorable  heart !" 


172 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


"But  it  is  true  — is  it  not?  — that 
whether  I  write  or  he  writes,  the  result 
will  be  the  same  to  me." 

"  No  :  the  fellow  knows  well  enough 
that  by  turning  informer  he  places  you 
in  a  false  position." 

"  How  is  that  ?" 

"Had  he  suffered,  you  to  write,  this 
Mr.  Dunmore  could  not,  for  very  shame, 
have  demanded  more  than  the  original 
sum  that  Mr.  Hartland  received  from 
your  father's  estate.  But,  getting  the 
information  from  another,  and  having  to 
pay  heavily  for  it,  he  may  possibly  bring 
suit,  in  addition,  for  the  mesne  profits." 

"  I  don't  understand  that  term." 

"  It  means  the  intermediate  rents  or 
profits  that  may  have  accrued  from  a 
property  during  the  time  it  had  been  in 
the  hands  of  a  person  to  whom  it  did 
not  belong :  in  this  case  the  rents  and 
profits  of  your  father's  properly  from  the 
time  it  came  into  Mr.  Hartland's  hands 
up  to  the  present  day." 

"  That  is  terrible  :  then  I  or  my  guar 
dian  would  have  to  repay  all  that  he  has 
paid  out  for  my  education  and  support. 
I  shall  be  heavily  in  debt,  besides  losing 
all  I  have.  How  shall  I  ever  be  able  to 
pay  it  ?" 

"  I  do  not  think  any  court  in  the 
United  States  would,  under  the  circum 
stances,  award  more  than  the  ten  thou 
sand  dollars  which  the  good  manage 
ment  of  your  guardian  has  added,  as 
your  aunt  informed  me,  to  the  thirty 
thousand  originally  put  into  his  hands. 
At  all  events,  dear  child,  do  not  vex 
yourself,  in  advance,  about  so  uncertain 
a  thing.  Your  affairs  are  in  good  hands. 
Don't  let  your  thoughts  dwell  on  them 
if  you  can  possibly  help  it :  better  think 
of  your  school.  Shall  we  ride  ?" 

As  Sydenham  assisted  her  to  mount, 
"  By  the  way,"  he  said,  "  what  did  you 
mean,  that  last  day  we  rode  together,  by 
talking  about  parting  with  a  favorite  ?" 

«  I  cannot  afford  to  keep  Bess  now." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,"  said 
Sydenham,  as  they  rode  on.  "  I'm  not 
sure  that  you  can  afford  to  part  with 
her.  You  are  right  in  wishing  to  hus- 
oand  your  resources,  but  there  is  such  a 
thing  as  false  economy.  Health,  spirit, 


energy  —  these  are  now  part  of  your 
stock  in  trade.  It's  a  very  wearing 
thing,  Celia,  to  teach  school  day  after 
day  :  the  world  underrates  the  import 
ance  and  the  labor  of  such  work.  We 
mustn't  have  you  worn  out." 

"  Ellinor's  school  hours  are  but  five  a 
day  —  limited  to  that  on  your  recom 
mendation,  I  think  she  told  me." 

"  Yes :  it  is  enough  for  pupil  and 
teacher.  Children,  properly  taught,  can 
learn  more  in  that  time  than  in  six  or 
seven  hours  of  daily  lessons.  But  as  to 
Bess,  I've  a  proposal  to  make  to  you." 

"  I  must  support  myself  and  pay  all 
my  own  expenses,  or  I  shall  not  be 
happy." 

«  Be  sure  that  I  respect  that  feeling. 
But  which  do  you  think  will  be  prefer 
able — to  teach  five  hours  a  day  and  walk 
on  foot,  or  to  teach  five  hours  and  a 
half  and  have  the  advantage  of  a  ride 
whenever  you  desire  it  ?" 

"  The  latter,  certainly." 

"  I  agree  with  you.  Now,  Celia,  you 
must  have  given  Lela,  in  the  last  two  or 
three  years,  at  least  a  hundred  music- 
lessons." 

« It  has  been  a  great  pleasure  to 
me." 

"  I  don't  doubt  it ;  and  I  accepted  the 
kindness,"  he  added,  smiling,  "from 
Celia,  the  capitalist,  thankfully  and  with 
out  scruple.  Will  the  teacher  let  me 
talk  to  her  very  frankly  ?" 

"  Surely,  Mr.  Sydenham.  You  wish 
to  speak  to  me  on  business :  that  is 
what  I  must  learn  now." 

"  Right.  I  have  been  thinking  seri 
ously  of  sending  Lela  to  Philadelphia  to 
prosecute  her  musical  studies.  But  I 
dislike,  more  than  I  can  tell  you,  to  part 
with  the  dear  child.  I  should  so  much 
prefer  to  have  her  taught  here.  She 
ought  to  have  three  lessons  a  week, 
partly  in  singing." 

"If  you  think  me  capable,  I  shall  be 
delighted  to  teach  her." 

"  You  may  remember  that,  two  or 
three  years  since,  in  Philadelphia,  I  was 
present,  more  than  once,  when  Madame 
Schonbach  was  giving  you  a  lesson  :  a 
friend  wished  to  know  my  opinion  of 
her  system  of  teaching.  I  thought  it  ad- 


BEYOND   THE  BREAKERS. 


173 


mirable  ;  and  I  have  observed  that  you 
adopted  it,  faithfully  and  skillfully,  in 
giving  Lela  lessons.  I  shall  commit  her 
musical  education  to  you  with  entire 
confidence." 

«  How  much  I  thank  you  !" 

«  I  shall  be  the  gainer.  Probably  you 
have  not  yet  thought  cf  your  scale  of 
prices." 

«  No.  Mrs.  Mowbray  charges  sixty 
cents— fifty  cents  only,  I  believe,  to  her 
youngest  pupils  ;  but  I  am  quite  inex 
perienced — " 

«  Celia,  I  have  usually  been  thought  a 
good  judge  in  musical  matters.  You  are 
a  better  musician,  and  have  a  much  bet 
ter  system  in  teaching,  than  Mrs.  Mow- 
bray.  Besides,  you  understand  thorough 
bass  :  she  does  not.  And  then  her  les 
sons,  at  sixty  cents,  are  but  three-quarters 
of  an  hour  long.  If  you  charge  less  than 
a  dollar  an  hour,  there  can  be  but  one 
good  reason  for  it." 

«  What  reason  ?" 

« Because  those  who  apply  are  too 
poor  to  be  able  to  pay  what  your  lessons 
are  worth.  Do  as  you  please  in  their 
cases.  I  am  not  too  poor  to  pay  a  just 
price.  Indeed,  there  is  a  reason  why  I 
should  pay  more  than  they.  I  propose 
that  you  should  give  Lela  her  lessons  at 
my  house,  and  you  will  have  to  travel 
each  time  more  than  two  miles." 

« I  shall  greatly  prefer  it.  Your 
Chickering  is  so  much  superior  to  Mr. 
Hartland's  piano." 

So  it  was  arranged  that  Celia  should 
give  Lela  three  music-lessons  a  week, 
of  an  hour  each,  for  a  hundred  and 
fifty  dollars  a  year.  «  It  will  pay  for 
Bess'  keep,"  Sydenham  remarked,  "and 
leave  something  over  for  farriers'  and 
saddlers'  items.  Depend  upon  it,  the 
mare  is  a  good  investment.  She  may 
save  you  several  doctors'  bills.  And  on 
her  back  you  can  come  to  Rosebank  and 
return  in  twenty  minutes,  instead  of 
three-quarters  of  an  hour,  which  you 
would  have  to  spend  on  foot.  You  save 
time,  and  time  is  money." 

Sydenham's  delicate  thoughtfulness 
for  her  welfare  and  comfort  touched 
Celia  to  the  heart.  As  they  parted,  her 
thought  was  :  "  Should  I  ever,  but  for 


the    loss    of    fortune,    have    thoroughly 
known  how  good  a  man  he  is  ?" 

Then  the  thought  would  obtrude 
itself:  "How  different  the  revelation 
in  Evelyn's  case  !"  But  alas  !  alas  ! 
Though  the  eyes  were  opened,  the  heart 
was  sick.  Celia  thrust  back  the  thought 
as  a  disloyalty.  Like  the  king  of  Israel 
when  he  learned  the  fate  of  his  insurgent 
son,  she  still  suffered  love  to  cover  a 
multitude  of  sins.  By  and  by  she  might 
come  to  feel,  as  Sydenham  had  hinted, 
that  the  beautiful  path  of  flowers  she  had 
been  treading  was  barred  in  mercy.  Not 
now.  All  she  could  do  was  to  turn  her 
thoughts  resolutely  to  other  things. 
There  was  comfort  there. 

As  she  rode  home  on  the  graceful 
little  mare  that  was  still  to  be  hers,  how 
marvelous  the  change  a  few  short  hours 
had  wrought !  Not  in  the  external. 
She  was  still  the  daughter  of  an  unmar 
ried  mother,  and  of  a  father  who  had  led 
a  life  of  deceit.  She  felt,  as  before,  that 
her  fortune — large  for  her,  with  simple 
tastes  and  living  in  a  quiet  village— was 
to  go  to  another,  leaving  her  almost 
penniless.  Without,  all  was  still  the 
same.  But  within,  a  battle  had  been 
fought  and  won.  The  kingdom  in  the 
mind,  that  had  been  distracted  by  rebel 
lious  malcontent,  was  comparatively  at 
peace.  It  had  overcome  its  enemies 
and  achieved  independence. 

It  would  have  been  a  curious  psycho 
logical  inquiry  how  much  of  the  victory 
which  the  young  girl  had  that  day  ob 
tained  was  due,  as  the  greatest  victories 
often  are,  to  a  petty  incident. 

"  Small  sands  the  mountain,  moments  make  the  year, 
And  trifles,  life." 

Let  Wisdom  smile  and  Age  forget 
youthful  weakness.  It  is  none  the  less 
true  that  full  half  the  grief  with  which 
Celia  Pembroke  encountered  loss  of 
name  and  fortune  was  lifted  from  her 
heart  when  she  felt  that,  in  giving  up 
forty  thousand  dollars,  she  was  not  call 
ed  upon  to  surrender,  along  with  it,  her 
petted  favorite — her  daily  companion — 
her  spirited  little  beauty,  Bess. 

Sydenham  was  a  sagacious  man. 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 
WHAT  THE   LAW   SAID. 

SOME  one  has  said  that  law  is  but 
the  crystallization  of  natural  justice,  and 
Aristotle  claimed  for  Jurisprudence  that 
it  is  the  most  perfect  branch  of  Ethics. 
To  a  certain  extent,  especially  as  regards 
the  great  legal  maxims  underlying  all 
statutory  provisions — the  leges  legum,  to 
adopt  Bacon's  phrase — this  is  true.  But 
many  of  the  Common  Law  usages  are 
essentially  barbarous  ;  and  while  the 
guards  set  up  under  that  system  to  pre 
serve  the  public  rights  of  the  subject 
have  done  much  for  human  liberty, 
some  of  its  rules  touching  private  rights 
in  social  life  and  the  regulating  of  pro 
perty  are  much  less  liberal  and  equitable 
than  the  corresponding  provisions  under 
the  Institutes  of  the  Roman  Law. 

Both  systems  are,  in  our  own  country, 
gradually  undergoing  grave  and  wise 
modifications,  dictated  by  that  merciful 
and  Christian  spirit  which  is  stealing 
over  the  world  as  it  grows  older  and 
calmer,  and  which  finds  expression,  from 
time  to  time,  in  amendments  to  the 
Statute  Law  9f  our  several  States. 

This  occurred  strongly  to  Creighton 
as  he  looked  up  the  various  law-points 
in  Celia's  case.  Ohio,  he  found,  had 
enacted  remedies  for  an  injustice  which 
older  commonwealths  have  left  unre- 
clressed.  It  was  with  a  feeling  of  en 
couragement  that,  on  the  same  afternoon 
on  which  Sydenham  and  Celia  had  been 
moralizing  on  Grangula's  Mount,  he 
sought  an  interview  with  Mr.  Hartland 
the  elder  to  report  progress.  The  facts 
he  had  to  state  were  these : 

That  an  Ohio  statute,  passed  in  1831 
and  re-enacted  (with  a  mere  verbal 
alteration)  in  the  Code  of  1854,  pro 
vides,  "  The  issue  of  marriages  deemed 
null  in  law  shall  nevertheless  be  legiti 
mated  * 

That  an  almost  identical  provision  is 
found  in  the  Missouri  Code.f  And  that, 
although  a  Missouri  circuit  court  decided, 
under  that  law,  that  the  children  of  the 
second  marriage  could  not  inherit,  the 

*  Act  of  February  24,  1831,  §  xiii. 
T  "  The  issue  of  all  marriages  deemed  null  in  law, 
Or  dissolved  by  divorce,  shall  be  legitimate  " 


Supreme  Court  of  the  State  reversed  the 
decision.:}: 

That  there  had  been  no  decision  by 
the  Supreme  Court  of  Ohio  on  this 
point. 

"  My  sister,  Mrs.  Wolfgang,"  sug 
gested  Hartland,  "  says  Cranstoun  told 
her  that  just  such  a  case  as  Celia's  had 
been  decided  adversely,  not  long  since, 
in  one  of  the  counties  of  this  State. 
Do  you  believe  that  ?" 

"  It  may  be  a  mere  blind  or  it  may  be 
true  ;  probably  the  latter,  for  that  would 
explain  the  grounds  of  Cranstoun's  con 
fidence.  But  it  would  be  an  endless 
task  to  look  through  the  records  of 
eighty  counties  in  search  of  a  decision 
made  in  one  of  them  ;  nor  is  it  import 
ant.  Since  a  circuit  court  in  Missouri 
decided  against  the  rights  of  the  children 
by  the  second  marriage,  one  in  Ohio 
may  have  fallen  into  the  same  error." 

"  But  on  what  plea  could  a  circuit 
court  decide  adversely  ?" 

"  Probably  by  construing  the  expres 
sion,  'deemed  null  in  law,'  as  applic 
able  only  to  marriages  that  are  what  the 
law  calls  voidable — that  is,  marriages 
which  require  a  judicial  sentence  to 
establish  their  nullity." 

"  You  think  that  a  false  construction  ?" 

"  Decidedly.  I  do  not  see  how  the 
language  of  the  statute  can,  with  any 
propriety,  be  so  limited.  I  think  the 
innocent  child  or  children  of  the  mar 
riage  de  facto,  though  f  that  marriage  be 
deemed  in  law  a  nullity,  come  clearly 
within  the  letter  and  the  spirit  of  the 
enactment." 

Hartland  sat  for  some  time  absorbed 
in  thought.  "Your  opinion  seems  a 
logical  deduction  from  the  wording  of 
the  law,"  he  said  at  last;  "and  I  cannot 
help  hoping,  for  Celia's  sake,  that  you 
are  right ;  yet  I  very  much  doubt  whether 

t  Lincecitnt  v.  Lincecum,  3  Mo.  Ref.  441.  A  case 
of  bigamy,  both  wives  being  alive  at  the  time  o/  the 
husband's  death.  The  children  of  the  second  marriage 
had  sued,  in  a  circuit  court,  for  their  share  of  the 
father's  property,  and  had  lost  the  suit.  The  case 
being  carried  to  the  Supreme  Court  of  Missouri,  the 
decision  of  the  court  below  was  reversed,  and  the  right 
of  the  children  to  inherit  affirmed.  In  giving  judg 
ment  the  court  said  :  "  Where  a  person  is  once  clearly 
and  positively  legitimated,  he  ought  not  to  be  bastard- 
zed  by  implication  or  construction." 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


175 


such  a  law  is  conducive  to  public  morality. 
We  are  getting  altogether  too  lax  and 
lenient  in  our  modern  notions,  Mr. 
Creighton.  At  this  rate  there  will  soon 
be  no  distinction  between  virtue  and 
vice." 

"  We  cannot  punish  crime  until  it  is 
detected,"  replied  Creighton.  "  Had  < 
Mr.  Pembroke  been  detected  and  con 
victed,  he  would  have  been  sentenced  to 
hard  labor  in  the  penitentiary  for  one 
year  at  all  events,  and  for  six  more  at 
the  option  of  the  court." 

"  But  if  a  man  knew  that  after  his 
death  his  wife  and  children  might  still 
suffer  for  his  fault,  it  would  be  an  addi 
tional  motive  to  deter  him  from  so 
heinous  a  crime  as  bigamy." 

« Mrs.  Pembroke  and  Miss  Celia 
were  as  innocent  in  this  matter  as  you 
and  I,  Mr.  Hartland.  Ought  we  to  mete 
out  punishment  to  the  innocent  by  way 
of  reforming  the  guilty  ?  On  the  same 
principle  we  might  enact  that  the  widow 
and  children  of  a  bigamist  like  Pembroke 
should  be  condemned  to  years  of  im 
prisonment  and  hard  labor.  It  is  possi 
ble  that  such  an  enactment  might  oc 
casionally  exert  a  deterrent  influence, 
but  I  think  you  would  not  recommend 
it." 

"  We  shall  not  agree  on  such  matters," 
said  Mr.  Hartland,  coldly. 

"  Very  true  ;  and  we  are  straying  from 
the  practical  points  at  issue.  On  one  of 
these  points  I  think  you  may  set  your 
mind  at  rest.  You  are  not  at  all  likely 
to  be  held  responsible  for  any  reasonable 
sums  which,  having  good  cause  to  be 
lieve  the  property  hers,  you  expended  on 
your  ward's  behalf,  nor  can  she  be  held 
to  reimburse  them." 

"  That  is  satisfactory." 

Then  they  parted ;  Mr.  Hartland 
somewhat  nettled,  as  he  always  was 
when  he  came  into  contact  with  modern 
innovators  who  gave  plausible  reasons 
in  support  of  their  heresies,  and  with 
some  misgivings  also.  "These  san 
guine  world-reformers,"  he  thought, 
"  are  not  much  to  be  trusted :  their 
vagaries  mislead  them." 

The  next  morning  he  called  at  Creigh- 
ton's  office.  "  You  know,"  he  said,  "  by 


reputation  at  all  events,  Mr.  Marshall  of 
Buffalo  ?" 

"Joseph  Marshall,  who  practiced  law 
for  some  twenty  years  in  this  State  ? — 
one  of  the  clearest-headed  lawyers  in  it." 

"  The  same,  and  a  very  intimate  friend 
of  mine.  I  should  like,  if  you  do  not 
object,  to  obtain  his  opinion  in  this  mat 
ter.  The  amount  at  issue  is  large,  and 
my  duty  to  my  niece  requires  that  I 
should  neglect  no  reasonable  precaution." 

"You  are  quite  right,  Mr.  Hartland. 
I  do  not  know  Mr.  Marshall  personally, 
but  I  shall  be  much  pleased  to  have  him 
associated  with  me  in  the  case." 

"  Then,  if  you  will  be  so  good  as  to 
make  out  such  notes  of  your  own  opinion 
as  you  may  desire  to  have  submitted 
to  him,  I  shall  start  for  Buffalo  next 
Monday." 

"  With  great  pleasure."  Then,  after 
a  pause  :  "Mr.  Hartland,  I  begged  you 
not  to  say  anything  to  Miss  Celia  about 
the  hopes  I  entertained  to  bring  matters 
out  all  right ;  but  if  you  see  no  objection, 
I  think,  now  that  I  have  substantial 
grounds  to  go  upon,  I  ought  to  lay  these 
before  her." 

"  I  have  no  objection,"  said  the  other, 
apparently  with  some  hesitation. 

Creighton  noticed  it :  nevertheless  the 
same  afternoon  he  called  to  see  the 
young  lady.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hartland 
had  driven  out,  and  he  found  her  just 
returned  from  school  and  alone. 

They  had  met  twice  already  since  the 
day  when  Celia  heard  of  her  father's 
misconduct,  and  his  manner  had  puzzled 
her.  It  had  certainly  changed.  For 
merly,  in  the  days  of  her  prosperity — 
for  so  in  her  thoughts  she  now  regarded 
her  past  life — he  had  frequently  spent 
his  evenings  with  them  ;  and  his  some 
what  off-hand  style  of  addressing  her 
(strictly  within  the  bounds  of  good- 
breeding  though  it  was)  had  left  an  un 
pleasant  feeling — a  vague  impression,  as 
she  had  told  Mowbray,  that  he  thought 
her  vain  of  her  position  as  a  village 
heiress. 

All  this  seemed  to  have  passed  away, 
and  within  the  last  week  he  had  treated 
her  with  marked  respect — with  a  delicate 
reverence,  she  almost  thought,  for  her 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


misfortunes,  but  expressed  in  tone  and 
manner,  not  in  words. 

Etymologists  derive  the  term  "lady" 
from  two  Gothic  words,  meaning  bread- 
giver :  "gentleman"  has  a  less  assured 
derivation,  usually  referred  to  birth  rather 
than  to  disposition  ;  yet  I  prefer  to  take 
it  in  the  modern  sense  of  our  beautiful 
word  gentle;  so  that  the  terms  employed 
to  designate  those  above  the  vulgar,  and 
which  ought  to  be  restricted  to  Nature's 
aristoi,  may  both  imply  inherent  nobility 
of  character — in  one  sex  that  Charity, 
vicegerent  of  Deity,  which  dispenses 
earthly  blessings  ;  in  the  other,  the  same 
godlike  attribute  in  a  broader  sense — 
that  spirit,  gentle  and  easy  to  be  en 
treated,  which  Christianity  has  substi 
tuted  for  the  stern,  vengeance-dealing 
systems  of  an  older  world. 

There  are  various  qualities  which 
mark  the  cultivated,  well-bred  man  ;  yet 
not  one  perhaps  is  more  characteristic 
than  a  gentle,  deferential  tone  in  address 
ing  woman,  especially  in  her  season 
of  sorrow.  Celia  felt  this  as  Creighton 
spoke  : 

«  I  come,  after  consulting  with  your 
guardian,  to  talk  a  little  law  with  you, 
Miss  Celia.  In  a  general  way,  I  don't 
talk  law  with  my  younger  clients,  espe 
cially  when  I  have  hopes  of  success 
which  may  or  may  not  be  realized.  But 
you  have  fortitude  and  a  mind  equal  to 
adverse  fortune,  and  with  you  I  run  no 
risk :  you  will  not  mistake  probabilities 
for  certainties." 

Celia's  color  deepened  :  a  wild  hope 
sprung  up  in  her  breast,  but  she  dis 
missed  it,  saying,  "It  is  surely  not  prob 
able — possible  even — that  there  was  no 
English  wife  living  when  mamma  was 
married." 

«  Unfortunately,  no  ;  but  that  reminds 
me" — he  took  from  a  green  bag  a  bun 
dle  of  papers,  selected  one  of  these  and 
handed  it  to  Celia.  "  Will  you  have  the 
kindness  to  look  over  these  extracts,  and 
to  tell  me  if  they  correspond  to  what 
you  read  in  your  father's  letters  to  Mr. 
Cranstoun  ?" 

Celia  read  them  carefully  and  said, 
«  So  far  as  I  remember  they  correspond 
exactly." 


« I  did  not  doubt  it.  Cranstoun  is 
not  a  man  to  commence,  or  even  to 
threaten,  a  suit  without  some  foundation. 
I  grieve  to  think  your  father  sinned, 
Miss  Pembroke.  I  cannot  remove  from 
you  the  burden  of  that  remembrance. 
Would  to  God  I  could  !" 

"  But  you  spoke  of  hopes,  Mr.  Creigh 
ton — of  probabilities  ?" 

"Very  important  ones  they  are,  but 
they  regard  yourself  only  ;  and  I  fear 
they  will  cause  you  less  pleasure  than 
your  father's  misconduct  has  caused  you 
pain.  You  will  forgive  my  speaking 
plainly  to  you  ?" 

"  I  shall  think  you  deal  kindly  with 
me,"  but  the  cheeks  flushed. 

Creighton  colored  slightly  himself,  say 
ing  in  a  low  tone,  "  Miss  Celia,  you 
think  yourself  an  illegitimate  child  ?" 

"  I  know  it  only  too  well,"  her  eyes 
cast  down.  "  I  heard  it,"  she  added, 
shuddering,  "from  coarse  and  cruel 
tongues." 

"  What  they  said  was  false  :  you  are 
mistaken.  You  are  as  legitimate  as  your 
aunt  or  uncle,  or  any  inhabitant  of 
Chiskauga." 

Celia  had  not  a  word  in  reply,  so 
astounded  was  she  :  and  Creighton,  add 
ing,  "You  shall  see  the  law,"  handed 
her  another  paper  from  the  bundle,  con 
taining  two  lines  only — lines  almost  ot 
life  and  death  to  the  poor  girl.  W7hen 
she  had  read  them,  he  said,  «  That  was 
the  law  of  Ohio  at  the  time  of  your 
mother's  marriage,  and  it  is  the  law 
still.  The  marriage,  at  the  time  it  took 
place,  was  null  in  law,  but  you  see  by 
that  paper  that  you  are  nevertheless 
legitimate." 

Creighton  may  have  been  right  when 
he  said  that  the  joy  would  not  be  equal 
to  the  past  sorrow.  Yet  it  was  a  great 
joy,  gushing  over  her  heart,  as  if  the 
breath  of  summer  had  penetrated,  with 
sensible  warmth,  to  its  core.  The  badge 
of  shame  —  a  fancied  letter  B,  which 
stung  almost  like  the  terrible  A  of  old 
Puritan  law,*  the  badge  of  shame  which 

*  General  Laws  and  Liberties  of  Massachusetts 
Bay,  chap,  xxviii.,  sec.  i  :  "  A  capital  A  of  two  inches 
long,  cut  out  in  cloth  of  a  contrary  colour  to  their 
cloaths,"  etc. 


BEYOND    THE   BREAKERS. 


177 


she  had  thought  to  wear  through  life — 
had  suddenly  dropped  from  her  as  by 
magic,  yet  the  magician  was  a  young 
lawyer,  and  his  wand,  two  lines  from  a 
musty  statute-book.  A  great  mistake 
he  made  who  applied  to  laws  what  Pope 
said  of  forms  of  government : 

"  Whatever  is  best  administered  is  best." 

Laws,  in  their  despotism,  may  save  or 
destroy  both  soul  and  body.  If  the 
thirteenth  section  of  that  Act  of  1831 
had  declared  that  "  the  issue  of  marriages 
deemed  null  in  law  shall  be  bastards," 
by  what  mode  of  administration  would 
it  have  helped  this  poor  guiltless  orphan 
out  of  the  pit  of  her  grief? 

Creighton  sat  watching  Celia's  coun 
tenance.  It  was  a  very  interesting  one, 
and— if  love  be  dangerous — a  somewhat 
dangerous  one  to  watch.  She  had  had, 
from  early  youth,  a  habit — very  painful 
it  had  often  been  to  her — of  blushing  at 
the  touch  of  any  emotion  whether  of  joy 
or  sorrow  —  at  trifles,  even,  as  at  the 
unexpected  sight  of  some  girl-friend  ; 
and  when  deeply  and  suddenly  moved 
the  flush  would  overspread  face  and 
bosom. 

Just  then  the  changeful  heaven  of  that 
countenance  seemed  suddenly  overcast 
again,  as  if  some  cloud  were  crossing  the 
sun  of  her  new-found  hope.  It  puzzled 
Creighton. 

At  last  she  looked  up  and  said  in  low, 
eager  tones  :  "  Mr.  Creighton,  was  mam 
ma  a  legal  wife  ?" 

"  I  have  looked  carefully  into  that 
matter,  knowing  it  would  interest  you, 
and  I  believe  that  during  the  three  last 
years  of  her  marriage  she  was.  I  will 
tell  you  why  I  think  so.  Kent,  one  of 
our  best  legal  authorities,  says  that,  by 
the  Common  Law,  no  peculiar  ceremonies 
are  requisite  to  the  celebration  of  the 
marriage  :  the  consent  of  the  parties  is 
all  that  is  required.*  And  it  is  the 
opinion  of  a  learned  writer  on  the  Do 
mestic  Relations  that  the  marriage,  if 
made  at  Common  Law,  without  observ 
ing  any  statute  regulations,  would  still 
be  valid.f  We  have  no  statute,  though 

*  Kent's  Commentaries,  vol.  ii.,  p.  86. 

t  Reeve's  Domestic  Relations,  pp.  196,  200,  290. 


I  think  we  ought  to  have,  providing  that 
a  woman  who  contracts  a  marriage  in 
good  faith,  ignorant  of  a  previous  im 
pediment,  shall,  as  soon  as  the  impedi 
ment  is  removed,  become  a  legal  wife  ; 
but  this  is  the  rule  under  the  Spanish 
law,  as  it  existed  formerly  in  Florida 
and  Texas  ;%  and  our  State  legislation 
tends  in  that  direction.  When  the  Eng 
lish  wife  died  your  father  was  free.  Out 
of  regard  for  your  mother's  feelings — 
mistaken  regard,  but  doubtless  most  sin 
cere — he  did  not  renew,  and  cause  your 
mother  to  renew,  by  the  usual  ceremony, 
the  formal  expression  of.  that  « consent 
of  the  parties"  which  undoubtedly  suffices 
to  legalize  marriage.  But  that  consent 
had  been  publicly  given  and  recorded 
nine  or  ten  years  before,  had  never  been 
withdrawn,  and  was  substantially  re 
newed  by  the  continuance  of  your  father 
and  mother  to  live  together  as  husband 
and  wife  until  Mr.  Pembroke's  death. 
Thus  the  case  seems  made  out.  I  must 
remind  you,  however,  Miss  Pembroke, 
that  this  is  my  opinion  only,  and  that  I 
may  be  mistaken,  since  I  find  no  de 
cision  on  the  subject.  But  whether  I 
am  mistaken  or  not,  the  moral  right  of 
the  case  remains  the  same.  And  then, 
even  if  it  should  appear  that  the  law  fails 
to  afford  relief  where  justice  cries  aloud 
that  it  should,  we  must  bear  in  mind — " 
He  hesitated,  as  men  who  have  been  talk 
ing  of  worldly  business  often  do  when 
their  thoughts  stray  off  to  a  higher 
sphere. 

"  You  promised  to  speak  plainly  to 
me,"  Celia  said.  «  What  must  we  bear 
in  mind  ?" 

"  That  your  mother  is  now  in  a  world 
which  calumny  cannot  reach,  and  where 
legal  injustice  is  unknown."  He  said  it 
reverently  and  with  emotion.  Then, 
after  a  time,  he  added  :  "  No  law  could 
have  made  her  life  more  pure,  nor  her 
relations  to  your  father  more  holy  than 
they  were.  Do  not,  I  entreat  you,  Vex 
yourself  without  cause  by  imagining 
how,  if  the  point  had  come  up,  legal 
technicalities  might  have  caused  it  to  be 
decided.  It  has  no  practical  bearings 
on  yourself  or  your  future." 

\  i  Texas  Rep.,  621. 


BEYOND  THE  BREAKERS. 


He  paused  to  see  whether  the  ques 
tion  of  property  would  suggest  itself. 
No.  She  was  thinking  of  her  mother, 
and  of  that  untried  phase  of  being  far 
better  than  the  earthly  phase — of  that 
world  whose  denizens  serve  God,  not 
Mammon. 

"  I  thank  you  from  my  heart,"  she 
said.  "What  you  told  me  about  my 
mother  did  me  so  much  good." 

"I  have  done  nothing  for  you,  as  yet, 
Miss  Pembroke,  out  I  do  hope  to  render 
you  substantial  service." 

Still  no  sign  that  the  question  of 
heirship  had  crossed  Celia's  mind.  It 
seemed  left  for  Creighton  to  moot  it. 
"  Have  you  no  curiosity,"  he  said  at  last, 
"  as  to  whether  the  fact  of  your  legiti 
macy  affects  your  property  ?" 

"  I  thought  that  question  was  settled 
against  me.  Mr.  Cranstoun  said  so." 

"He  told  you  also  that  you  were  an 
illegitimate  child,  but  you  see  what  that 
assertion  was  worth." 

« Is  it  possible  that  I  am  still  my 
father's  rightful  heir  ?" 

"  I  think  so,  because  the  fact  of  legiti 
macy  carries  with  it  the  right  to  inherit. 
But  I  am  not  sure  that  the  courts  will 
ultimately  decide  in  your  favor.  Let  me 
tell  you  exactly  what  the  facts  are." 

"  Did  not  Mr.  Cranstoun  say  to  Mrs. 
Wolfgang  that  it  had  already  been  de 
cided  somewhere  against  the  children  of 
the  second  marriage  in  just  such  a  case 
as  mine  ?" 

"  She  says  so  ;  and  such  a  decision 
may  have  been  made." 

"  How,  then,  can  there  be  any  hope  ?" 

"  Because  the  decision  spoken  of  is 
said  to  have  been  made  in  a  county 
court  only.  But  when  county — or,  as 
we  call  them,  circuit — courts  make  blun 
ders,  we  appeal  to  the  Supreme  Court 
of  the  State  to  correct  these." 

"  But  the  Supreme  Court  may  think 
it  is  not  a  blunder  ?" 

"  I  see  I  was  right  in  trusting  you, 
Miss  Pembroke.  The  Supreme  Court 
may  think  so  ;  and  in  that  case  your 
property  will  be  lost." 

The  telltale  blush  showed  that  this 
did  affect  her.  The  new-found  hope  was 
about  to  die.  Creighton  came  to  its  re 


lief,  adding  :  "  But  I  feel  convinced  that 
our  Supreme  Court  would  declare  such  a 
decision  to  be  contrary  to  law." 

"Yet  it  is  uncertain." 

"Is  any  future  event  certain,  except 
death  ?  Then,  too,  law  is  proverbially 
uncertain.  You  do  well  to  be  prepared 
for  the  worst,  yet  I  firmly  believe  we 
shall  beat  them." 

As  he  took  his  leave  he  said  :  "You 
can  afford  to  look  with  comparative  in 
difference  on  the  legal  battle  that  is 
about  to  be  fought  in  your  behalf;  for 
you  will  succeed  in  the  world,  Miss 
Pembroke,  and  will  win  the  respect  of 
the  good,  let  it  terminate  as  it  will." 

In  pursuance  of  the  purpose  he  had 
expressed  to  Creighton,  Mr.  Hartland 
set  out  for  Buffalo,  taking  a  Lake  steamer 
at  Cleveland.  On  board  the  boat,  to  his 
surprise,  he  met  Nelson  Tyler.  The 
miller  was  on  his  way  to  Buffalo,  to 
purchase  a  pair  of  burr-stones  and  some 
additional  machinery  for  his  mill.  In 
conversing  of  Chiskauga  matters,  Mow- 
bray's  name  came  up,  and  the  two  did 
not  differ  materially  in  their  estimate  of 
the  man. 

When  Mr.  Hartland,  soon  after  his 
arrival  at  Buffalo,  called  on  Mr.  Marshall, 
he  found  that  that  gentleman  had  almost 
withdrawn  from  the  practice  of  law,  and 
was  residing  at  a  pleasant  country-seat 
a  few  miles  out  of  town,  where  his  time 
and  thoughts  were  occupied  in  the  col 
lection  and  arrangement  of  a  valuable 
cabinet  of  autographs — not  of  signatures, 
but  of  letters,  more  or  less  important, 
from  most  of  the  distinguished  authors 
and  statesmen  of  our  own  country  since 
the  days  of  the  Pilgrims,  and  of  Eu 
ropean  countries  from  a  still  older  date. 
Hartland  spent  several  days  with  his 
old  friend,  and  had  occasion  to  remark 
that  never,  in  earlier  years,  when  he  had 
known  him  making  ten  or  twelve  thou 
sand  dollars  annually  from  his  practice, 
had  the  lawyer  seemed  so  busily  engaged 
as  now,  from  morning  often  till  late  in 
the  night,  he  was ;  sometimes  in  the 
delicate  manipulation  of  old,  creased, 
scarcely-legible  letters  of  some  great 
poet  or  philosopher;  sometimes  in 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


179 


mounting  rare  and  valuable  portraits 
and  landscapes  with  which  to  illustrate 
some  favorite  work.  It  was  a  labor  he 
lovec] — in  the  performance  of  which  he 
seemed  never  to  tire.  Hartland  marveled 
to  see  a  man  whom  learned  courts  and 
dignified  assemblies  had  once  listened  to 
with  admiration,  engrossed  by  such  ob 
jects  as  these  ;  and  could  not  under 
stand  how,  one  day  when  a  long,  cha 
racteristic  letter  of  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson, 
written  near  the  close  of  the  great  lexi 
cographers  life,  unexpectedly  reached 
his  friend's  hands,  he  should  evince  as 
much  delight  as  a  child  just  possessed 
of  a  new  toy.  He  forgot  that  human 
character  is  far  more  interesting  than 
insect  life,  and  that  it  was  ever  a  white 
day  in  his  own  calendar  when  some  un- 
described  beetle  or  butterfly  first  blessed 
his  sight.  Men  seldom  comprehend  the 
attractions  of  any  hobby  except  their 
own. 

It  was  a  sacrifice  to  friendship  which 
Hartland  did  not  sufficiently  appreciate 
when  Mr.  Marshall,  with  a  sigh,  locked 
the  small  fire-proof  chamber  that  con 
tained  his  precious  manuscripts,  and 
spent  the  greater  part  of  two  days 
among  his  law-books,  studying  Celia's 
case.  In  the  end  he  came  to  nearly  the 
same  conclusions  as  Mr.  Creighton,  and 
wrote  out  an  opinion  endorsing  the  lat- 
ter's  views.  This  Mr.  Hartland  imme 
diately  despatched  to  Chiskauga,  promis 
ing  to  follow  it  in  a  steamer  which  was 
advertised  to  leave  Buffalo  four  days 
later  ;  and  in  which  the  miller,  having 
completed  his  purchases,  had  also  en 
gaged  a  berth. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 
THE    LAKE    STEAMER. 

"  Roth,  wie  Blut, 

1st  der  Himmel ; 
Das  ist  nicht  des  Tages  Glut ! 
Welch  Getummel !" 

SCHILLER,  Lied  von  der  Glocke. 

WE  are  living  through  a  period  of 
transition,  and  our  young  country  ex 
hibits  the  exuberance  incident  to  such  a 
state.  In  legislative  hall  or  traveler's 


caravansary,  in  "silver  palace  car"  or 
gorgeous  steamer,  we  are  wont  to  over 
look  the  fitness  of  things,  mistaking  tin 
sel  and  glitter  for  appropriate  enrich 
ment,  and  often  neglecting  substantial 
comfort  for  worthless  gauds. 

Yet  if  there  was  extra  gilding  and 
carving  and  superfluity  of  mirrors  and 
silk  hangings  in  the  stately  "  Queen  of 
the  Lakes,"  on  which  Hartland  and  the 
miller  embarked,  she  was  nevertheless 
a  magnificent  vessel,  gracefully  modeled 
and  well  appointed — a  craft  of  which  her 
genial  captain  might  well  be  proud. 

P'ull  three  hundred  and  fifty  feet  long, 
she  had  two  decks  stretching  throughout 
her  entire  length.  The  lower  of  these 
was  partially  occupied,  on  either  side,  by 
the  officers'  berths,  close  to  which  rose 
the  smoke-stacks,  while  the  spacious 
forward  deck  and  the  open  central  space 
were  crowded  by  a  large  number  of  steer 
age  passengers,  chiefly  decent-looking 
German  and  Irish  emigrants  ;  a  few  of 
whom,  however,  had  engaged  bunks  in 
the  small,  plain  after  cabin.  Of  the 
upper  deck  three-fourths  was  occupied 
by  the  main  cabin  for  first-class  passen 
gers,  handsome  state-rooms  being  par 
titioned  off  on  either  side,  and  the  after 
portion,  which  was  appropriated  to  the 
ladies  and  their  friends,  was  separated 
from  the  gentlemen's  cabin  by  rich  bro 
caded  satin  drapery.  From  the  opposite 
end  of  this  spacious  room  double  doors 
opened  on  the  upper  forward  deck,  the 
favorite  resort  of  the  cabin  passengers 
in  fine  weather.  * 

Upon  these  two  decks,  on  the  present 
occasion,  upward  of  four  hundred  pas 
sengers  had  found  accommodation. 

Captain  Drake  — for  so  the  autocrat 
of  this  floating  colony  was  named — had 
his  wife  and  family  on  board,  and  had 
invited  a  number  of  friends  on  a  pleasure- 
trip  to  Cleveland.  A  gay  and  thought 
less  party  they  were  ;  among  them 
several  young  people  of  each  sex,  whom 
the  captain,  bent  on  the  happiness  of 
his  guests,  had  apparently  selected  with 
special  reference  to  their  individual  pref 
erences,  for  they  dropped  naturally  into 
couples,  some  secluding  themselves  in 
the  ladies'  cabin  and  looking  over  books 


183 


BETOXD    THE  BREAKERS. 


or  prints  together  ;  others,  deep  in  con 
versation,  promenading  the  forward  deck. 

The  captain  entertained  them  gener 
ously  :  champagne  circulated  freely  at 
the  upper  end  of  the  long  dining-table. 
In  the  evening  there  was  music.  One 
young  lady,  of  distinguished  appearance, 
but  somewhat  inappropriately  attired  in 
an  elaborate  ball-dress,  was  a  charming 
ballad-singer  ;  and  her  rendering  of  the 
old  song,  "I'm  sitting  on  the  stile, 
Mary,"  called  forth,  from  a  good  many 
eyes,  the  tribute  of  tears.  Then  there 
was  an  impromptu  ball,  two  negro  vio 
linists  composing  the  band.  Captain 
Drake,  his  fifty-odd  years  forgotten, 
joined  jovially  in  the  dance,  which  was 
kept  up  till  past  midnight — in  honor  of 
May-day,  the  captain  said,  for  they  had 
left  Buffalo  on  a  warm,  bright  first  of 
May. 

Among  the  sober  spectators  of  this 
gay  scene  were  Thomas  Hartland  and 
Nelson  Tyler  ;  the  latter  cordially  en 
joying  it,  the  former  sitting  unmoved, 
with  a  silent  protest  in  his  heart  against 
the  levities  of  fashionable  life.  Without 
waiting  the  termination  of  the  dance, 
Hartland  retired  to  his  state-room. 
Having  delayed  to  secure  his  passage 
until  the  day  before  the  steamer  started, 
he  had  been  fain  to  put  up  with  a  some 
what  undesirable  berth,  the  upper  one  in 
a  state-room  alongside  the  wheel-house. 
As  this  room  could  have  no  door  or 
window  opening  outside,  it  was  lighted 
by  a  frame  projecting  from  its  roof  and 
glazed,  so  that  an$-  one  occupying  the 
upper  berth  could,  by  raising  himself, 
see,  through  the  side-panes,  what  passed 
on  the  hurricane  deck. 

Hartland  lay  awake.  At  first,  the 
sounds  of  merriment  and  music  outside 
chased  sleep  away  ;  and  when  these 
gradually  ceased  and  the  cabin  was  de 
serted,  he  still  lay,  he  did  not  know  how 
long,  listening  to  the  plash  of  the  great 
wheel  hard  by,  sinking  at  last  into  trou 
bled  and  broken  slumber. 

In  the  dead  of  night  he  suddenly  be 
came  conscious  of  the  sound  of  footsteps 
overhead.  Looking  through  the  sky 
light,  he  discerned  the  figures  of  two 
men  moving  silently  about,  one  of  them 


having  a  lantern  in  his  hand.  Then  he 
thought  he  heard  their  voices,  speaking 
in  eager,  suppressed  tones.  Thoroughly 
roused,  he  donned  a  portion  of  his  clothes 
and  proceeded  to  the  upper  deck.  A 
third  man  had  joined  the  first  two,  and 
Hartland  asked  him  what  was  the  matter. 
In  reply  the  latter  pointed  to  one  of 
the  smoke-stacks,  saying  in  a  whisper, 
"Looks  as  if  it  might  be  fire."  Hart- 
land  then  perceived,  dimly  by  the  lan 
tern-light,  a  slender  line  of  light  smoke 
or  steam  rising  close  to  the  starboard 
smoke-pipe,  and  he  became  aware  that 
one  of  the  two  men  whom  he  had  first 
seen  held  a  hose,  of  which  he  was  di 
recting  the  contents  on  this  object  of 
their  suspicions.  At  first  the  stream  of 
water  seemed  to  quench  the  fire,  if  fire  it 
was,  but  after  a  time,  the  smoke  began 
to  reappear  and  to  drift  aft,  though  still 
ascending  only  in  feeble  puffs.  Hart- 
land  hesitated  no  longer,  but  returned  at 
once  to  the  cabin,  where  he  roused  the 
miller,  and  they  awoke  several  other 
passengers,  the  doors  of  whose  state 
rooms  happened  to  be  unlocked ;  mak 
ing  no  noise,  however,  for  they  were  both 
men  of  nerve  and  courage,  and  they 
knew  the  effect  of  a  sudden  alarm  at 
night  among  so  great  a  crowd. 

Those  who  had  been  aroused  hastened 
from  the  cabin  and  met  the  captain 
speeding  up  to  the  hurricane  deck. 

Still  that  ominous  line  of  smoke  ! 
gradually  increasing  in  volume,  Hartland 
thought.  A  deathlike  stillness  over  the 
boat,  broken  only  by  the  dull,  rushing 
sound  of  its  huge  wheels. 

"  These  emigrants  below  ought  to  be 
warned,"  whispered  Nelson  Tyler  to 
Hartland ;  and  they  both  descended, 
moving  slowly  and  quietly  among  the 
sleeping  multitude  that  lay  on  the  deck. 
They  awoke  the  men  gently,  speaking 
in  an  undertone,  and  telling  them  it  was 
better  to  be  ready,  though  there  was  no 
immediate  danger.  As  the  officers,  fear 
ing  disturbance,  and  confident,  no  doubt, 
that  they  could  soon  master  the  fire,  had 
given  no  alarm,  the  news  spread  but 
gradually  and  without  arousing  any  vio 
lent  demonstration.  With  a  low  mur 
mur  the  crowd  arose. 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


181 


Then  the  two  mounted  to  the  floor 
above.  Men  and  women,  their  faces 
deadly  pale,  were  creeping  silently  from 
the  cabin,  and  soon  the  upper  forward 
deck  was  nearly  filled.  They  could 
dimly  see,  on  the  cabin  roof,  a  line  of 
men  who  had  been  organized  to  pass 
what  few  buckets  they  had  from  the  side 
of  the  vessel.  The  crowd  watched  the 
result  with  feverish  anxiety.  No  one 
spoke  above  his  breath.  All  eyes  were 
turned  to  that  long,  dark  cylinder  of 
smoke.  It  had  doubled  in  volume,  Hart- 
land  saw  at  a  glance,  since  he  first  had 
sight  of  it ;  and  the  conviction  flashed 
over  him  that  the  supply  of  water  was 
quite  insufficient  to  check  the  hidden 
flame.  The  horrors  he  had  read  of, 
about  fires  at  sea,  rose  vividly  to  his 
mind,  but  he  thrust  them  aside  by  a  de 
termined  effort.  He  looked  at  Tyler. 
It  was  evident  that  the  miller  too  real 
ized  the  situation,  yet  he  said  but  a  word 
or  two,  and  in  a  tone  so  low  that  Hart- 
land  overheard  only  Ellen's  name  :  then 
a  look  of  stern  resolution  passed  over 
Tyler's  face.  Conscious  of  his  own 
strength  and  skill  in  swimming,  he  was 
nerving  himself  for  the  struggle  before 
him. 

What  a  magnificent  night  it  was  ! — 
clear,  cloudless  ;  starlight  serene  in  its 
splendor,  but  no  moon  ;  the  wind  a  mod 
erate  breeze,  fresh  and  balmy,  just  stir 
ring  the  lake  surface  into  gentle  ripples. 
Nature  in  her  quietest,  holiest  aspect, 
shining  with  calm  benignance  from 
heaven,  as  if  to  give  earnest  of  peace 
and  protection  to  the  creatures  of  earth. 

Solemn  the  hush  over  that  awestruck 
crowd  !  They  felt  what  might  happen, 
though  most  of  them,  not  having  noticed 
the  gradual  increase  in  that  fatal  smoke- 
column,  were  still  buoyed  up  by  hope. 
How  character,  unmasked,  showed  itself 
there  !  Some  seemed  self-absorbed  ; 
others  had  gathered  into  groups,  the 
selfish  instinct  overcome  by  affection. 
Here  a  mother  had  brought  her  children 
together  and  was  whispering  to  them 
that  they  mustn't  be  afraid.  There  a 
brother,  his  arm  around  a  favorite  sister,' 
was  speaking  some  low  word  of  comfort 
and  encouragement.  Hartland  distin 


guished  among  the  rest  the  fair  songstress 
of  the  preceding  evening,  half  clad  now, 
careless  of  appearance,  mute  with  terror, 
a  young  man,  lately  her  partner  in  that 
gay  dance,  by  her  side  ;  bewildered  he 
seemed,  panic-stricken  like  herself:  poor 
protector  in  a  strait  like  that !  She  was 
not  the  only  one  who  found  out,  in  that 
terrible  night,  the  difference  between  a 
companion  fit  to  enliven  hours  of  idle 
ness,  and  a  friend  who  will  stand  stoutly 
by  and  succor,  through  gloom  of  danger, 
when  life  is  at  stake. 

Even  a  touch  of  the  ludicrous  min 
gled,  as  it  will  in  the  most  tragic  scenes. 
One  gentleman  had  a  silver-bound  dress 
ing-case  strapped  under  his  arm  ;  an 
other  carried  a  hat-box,  which  he  seemed 
to  guard  with  scrupulous  care.  Tyler 
saw  a  young  girl,  who  was  standing  near 
him,  deliberately  unclasp  a  pair  of  hand 
some  earrings,  then  roll  them  carefully 
in  her  handkerchief,  which  she  deposited 
in  her  pocket.  And  one  old  lady,  walk 
ing  distractedly  up  and  down  near  the 
cabin  door,  kept  eagerly  asking  the  pass 
ers-out  if  they  were  sure  they  hadn't 
seen  anything  of  her  bundle.  But  all 
such  frivolities  were  soon  to  cease. 

How  often,  to  the  storm-tossed  and 
bewildered  mariner,  has  there  shone, 
from  watch-tower  or  pharos,  a  feeble 
ray,  welcome  as  Hope  herself,  life-guide 
through  night  and  tempest !  But  the 
hope,  the  safety  of  this  waiting  crowd 
was  in  merciful  darkness. 

A  faint  flicker  of  light !  God  in  heav 
en  !  It  had  shot  up  along  the  edge  of 
that  large,  dark  smoke-pipe  !  For  a 
moment  it  dimly  showed  the  wan  faces 
— a  signal-fire,  omen  of  coming  fate. 

Another  !  A  shudder  crept  through 
the  watchers — a  long,  low  moan:  they 
saw  it  all  now.  The  fiery  element, 
gathering  power  below,  was  slowly  creep 
ing  upward  upon  them.  The  crowd 
glared  around  with  the  instinct  of  flight. 
Nothing  but  the  waste  of  waters,  with 
here  and  there  a  star  reflected  from  their 
dark  depths  !  And  still,  as  dreary  mon 
otone,  the  rushing  plash  of  those  gigan 
tic  wheels  ! 

Then  there  were  eager  inquiries  for 
life-preservers.  Not  one,  they  were  told, 


182 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


on  the  boat  !*  And  the  gilt  glitter  in 
that  luxurious  cabin — what  a  mockery 
now !  The  thousands  squandered  there 
might,  wisely  spent,  have  saved  that 
night  hundreds  of  human  lives. 

As  it  was,  a  portion  of  the  passengers 
went  in  search  of  something  to  keep 
them  afloat  in  casfe  of  the  worst,  return 
ing  with  chairs,  stools,  pieces  of  board, 
and  the  like.  Others,  utterly  unmanned 
and  abandoning  all  exertion,  gave  way 
to  wild  bewailings. 

A  mother  with  several  children,  en 
treated  Mr.  Hartland  to  take  charge  of 
the  youngest,  a  little  girl. 

"  I  am  going  below,  madam,"  he  re 
plied,  « where  the  crowd  is  dangerous, 
and  where  she  would  run  great  risk  of 
being  lost  or  crushed." 

The  mother  submitted,  kissing  the 
child  and  taking  it  in  her  arms,  and 
Hartland  whispered  to  Tyler,  "  Let  us 
go  down.  We  may  approach  the  shore 
before  the  flames  gain  head  ;  and  if  we 
have  to  swim  for  it,  the  chance  is  bet 
ter  from  the  lower  deck."  So  they 
descended. 

Below,  the  forward  deck  was  a  mass 
of  human  beings.  To  them  the  danger 
was  even  more  apparent  than  to  those 
above.  Flakes  of  flame  already  rose, 
here  and  there,  from  the.  deck  near  the 
smoke-stacks.  Even  the  heat  was  be 
ginning  to  be  felt.  But  there  was  one 
favorable  circumstance.  The  wind  was 
westerly — a  head  wind,  though  veering 
a  little  on  the  starboard  quarter — and 
flame  and  smoke  were  blown  aft,  leaving 
the  forward  half  of  the  vessel  clear. 

Soon  a  larger  fork  of  flame  shot  up, 
and  there  were  screams  faintly  heard 
from  the  small  after  cabin.  Some  of 
the  inmates,  attempting  to  lower  the 
yawl  that  hung  astern,  had  been  caught 
there  by  the  drifting  fire  :  their  fate  was 
sealed. 

That  last  burst  of  flame  must  have 
shown  itself  on  the  upper  deck,  for  there 
was  a  smothered  cry  from  above,  and 
then  a  voice — the  captain's  it  seemed — 
shouting  in  loud  tones  to  the  pilot. 

*  The  law  which  now  requires  that  all  passenger 
steamer?  shall  be  fully  supplied  with  these  had  not 
then  passed. 


The  alarm  gained  the  crowd  below, 
which  swayed  to  and  fro.  Women  and 
children  shrieked  in  terror  as  the  press 
came  upon  them.  Men's  Voices  rose — 
a  hoarse  murmur,  like  the  gathering  of  a 
great  wind.  Tyler  endeavored  to  make 
his  way  to  the  bow,  but  found  that  im 
possible  :  several  stout  Irish  laborers 
turned  threateningly  upon  him.  "I'll 
risk  my  chance  above,"  he  said  to  Hart- 
land,  but  the  latter  stayed  below. 

When  the  miller  reached  the  upper 
deck  a  sheet  of  fire  already  rose  nearly 
as  high  as  the  smoke-stacks,  and  the 
roof  of  the  main  cabin  had  caught.  But 
he  saw  also  in  a  moment  a  change  that 
kept  hope  alive.  The  smoke  and  flames, 
instead  of  drifting  aft,  now  blew  dead  to 
larboard.  The  captain's  command  to 
the  pilot  had  been  to  port  the  helm  and 
run  the  boat  on  shore. 

But  this  change,  bringing  the  mass  of 
flame  closer  to  the  passengers,  so  that 
those  nearest  the  cabin  felt  the  hot 
breath  on  their  cheeks,  at  first  increased 
their  alarm.  They  crowded  fearfully  to 
ward  the  bow,  and  many  must  have  been 
thrown  into  the  water  then  and  there, 
had  not  a  voice  called  out,  "  Don't 
crowd  :  they're  heading  her  for  land." 
This  assurance  in  a  measure  quieted  the 
terror-stricken  throng.  There  was  the 
suppressed  voice  of  lamentation,  an 
appeal  to  Heaven  for  mercy  here  and 
there,  but  still  no  clamorous  shout,  no 
wild  outcry.  There  could  be  seen,  by 
that  red  glare,  on  some  faces  the  calm 
of  resignation,  on  others  the  stillness  of 
despair. 

Though  the  flames  spread  steadily, 
the  engine  continued  to  work,  the 
wheels  did  their  duty,  and*1  the  pilot — 
noble  fellow  ! — still  kept  his  post,  though 
smoke,  mingled  with  thick  sparks,  swept 
in  circling  eddies  around  him. 

Each  minute  was  bearing  these  four 
hundred  souls  nearer  and  nearer  to 
safety,  and  all  eyes  were  now  strained 
in  the  direction  of  the  vessel's  course. 
The  blaze  from  that  terrific  bale-fire 
lighted  up  the  lake  waters  far  and  wide, 
and — yes  !  was  at  last  reflected  on  a  low 
shore  and  trees.  Some  one  near  the 
bow  cried  out,  "  Land  !  land  !"  Others 


BETOND    THE   BREAKERS. 


133 


caught  and  repeated  the  soul-stirring 
cry.  And  though  the  passengers  in  the 
rear  of  the  crowd' were  already  in  peril 
ous  vicinity  to  the  spreading  flames,  a 
faint  shout  of  exultation  went  up. 

But  terrible  and  speedy  came  the  re 
action  !  The  boat  had  been  headed 
more  and  more  to  the  left,  and  ere  five 
minutes  had  elapsed  —  with  a  thud  so 
heavy  that  she  shuddered  through  all  her 
limbers  —  the  vessel  struck  a  hidden 
sindbar,  remaining  fast,  but  before  she 
settled  swinging  by  the  stern  till  her 
after  cabin  lay  directly  to  windward. 
Thus  the  breeze,  which  had  freshened, 
blew  right  from  stern  to  bow. 

Fearful  was  the  result  !  In  an  in 
stant  the  whole  body  of  flame  swept 
straight  over  the  masses  that  had  hud 
dled  together  on  the  forward  decks.  At 
the  same  moment  the  huge  smoke-stacks, 
loosened  by  the  violent  shock,  fell,  with 
a  loud  crash,  down  through  the  cabin, 
their  fall  being  succeeded  by  a  sudden 
and  tremendous  burst  of  surging  fire. 

No  restraint  now !  No  thought  among 
that  doomed  multitude  save  one — escape 
from  the  most  horrible  of  all  deaths,  to 
be  burned  alive  !  In  the  very  extremity 
of  despair  they  crowded  recklessly  on 
each  other,  sweeping  irresistibly  forward 
till  the  front  ranks  were  borne  sheer  off 
the  bow  :  then  the  next,  then  the  next ! 
Ere  three  minutes  had  elapsed  the  water 
swarmed  with  a  struggling  throng — men, 
women,  children  battling  for  their  lives. 

A  few  of  the  passengers  in  the  rear 
rushed  to  the  stairs,  but  they  were  in 
flames:  No  escape  from  that  scene  of 
horror,  except  by  a  leap  of  some  twenty 
feet — from  the  upper  guards  down  to 
the  waves  below,  already  covered  with 
a  floundering  mass.  But  most  of  those 
who  were  left  accepted  the  desperate 
alternative,  flinging  themselves  over  the 
srde  of  the  boat.  Many  fell  flat  and  be 
came  senseless  at  once,  sinking  hope 
lessly  to  the  bottom  :  others,  dropping 
straight  down,  soon  rose  again  to  the 
surface.  Now  and  then  an  expert  swim 
mer,  watching  an  opening  in  the  liv 
ing  screen,  dived  down  head  foremost. 
Scarcely  a  score  remained,  the  miller 
among  them,  on  the  extreme  bow.  Even 


at  that  appalling  moment  his  attention 
was  arrested  by  a  brief  episode  in  the 
scene  of  horror  before  him.  A  young 
mother — tall,  graceful,  with  a  look  of  re 
finement  and  a  pale  Madonna  face,  her 
arms  around  a  baby  asleep,  it  seemed,  in 
their  shelter — stood  on  the  very  edge  of 
the  deck  where  the  rush  of  the  headlong 
crowd  had  broken  clown  the  guards — 
alone  !  —  her  natural  defender  —  who 
knows  ?  —  swept  away  by  the  human 
torrent,  or  perhaps,  under  the  tyrant  in 
stinct  of  self-preservation,  a  deserter 
from  her  whom  he  had  sworn  to  cherish 
and  protect.  All  alone,  to  earthly  seem 
ing  at  least,  though  she  might  be  com 
muning  even  then  with  the  Unseen,  for 
her  colorless  face  was  calm  as  an  angel's, 
and  her  large,  dark  eyes  were  raised 
with  a  gaze  so  eager  it  might  well  be 
penetrating  the  slight  veil,  and  already 
distinguishing,  beyond,  guardian  intel 
ligences  bending  near,  waiting  to  wel 
come  into  their  radiant  world  one  who 
had  been  the  joy  and  the  ornament  of 
this. 

As  Tyler  watched  her,  a  tongue  of 
flame  swept  so  close  he  thought  it  must 
have  caught  her  light  drapery.  A  single 
look  below,  a  plunge,  and  she  committed 
herself  and  her  babe  to  the  waves  and 
to  Him  who  rules  them. 

Tyler  rushed  to  the  spot  where  she 
had  stood,  but  mother  and  child  had 
already  sunk.  For  a  brief  space — mo 
ments  only,  though  he  thought  of  it  after 
ward  as  a  long,  frightful  dream  —  he 
gazed  on  the  seething  swarm  of  mortal 
ity  beneath  him — poor,  frail  mortality, 
stripped  of  all  flaunting  guise,  and  ex 
hibiting,  under  overwhelming  temptation, 
its  most  selfish  instincts  bared  to  their 
darkest  phase. 

The  struggle  to  reach  the  various 
floating  objects,  and  the  ruthlessness 
with  which  a  strong  swimmer  occasion 
ally  wrenched  these  from  the  grasp  of 
some  feeble  old  man  or  delicate  woman 
— it  was  all  horrible  to  behold.  Then 
again,  many  swimmers,  striking  without 
support  for  shore,  were  caught  in  the 
despairing  clutch  of  some  drowning 
wretch,  unconscious  perhaps  of  what  he 
did,  and  dragged  down  to  a  fate  from 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


which  their  strength  and  courage  might 
have  saved  them.  From  the  midst, 
however,  shone  forth  examples  of  per 
sistent  self-devotion  :  husbands  with  but 
one  thought,  the  safety  of  their  wives  ; 
a  son  sustaining  to  the  last  an  aged  pa 
rent  ;  but  above  all  the  maternal  instinct 
asserted  its  victory  over  death.  Tyler, 
even  in  those  fleeting  moments,  caught 
sight,  here  and  there  among  the  crowd, 
of  a  woman  with  one  hand  clutching  a 
friendly  shoulder  or  a  floating  support, 
holding  aloft  in  the  other  an  infant  all 
unconscious  of  impending  fate.  In  one 
instance,  even,  a  chubby  little  fellow, 
thus  borne  above  the  waters,  clapped 
his  tiny  hands  and  laughed  at  the  gay 
spectacle"  of  the  bright  flames. 

Meanwhile,  the  wind,  veering  a  little 
to  the  south,  and  thus  blowing  fire  and 
smoke  somewhat  to  larboard,  had  left,  on 
the  starboard  edge  of  the  forward  deck 
a  narrow  strip,  on  which,  though  the 
heat  was  intense,  some  ten  or  twelve 
persons  still  lingered  beyond  actual  con 
tact  with  the  flames.  But  each  moment 
the  fire  swept  nearer  and  nearer,  and 
Tyler  felt  that  the  last  chance  must  now 
be  risked.  He  dropped  into  the  water, 
feet  foremost,  and  disappeared. 

While  these  things  passed,  Hartland, 
below  with  the  steerage  passengers,  had 
witnessed  similar  scenes.  Human  na 
ture,  cultivated  or  uncultivated,  is,  as  a 
general  rule,  in  an  extremity  so  dire, 
mastered  by  the  same  impulses.  The 
difference  inherent  in  race,  however,  was 
apparent.  The  sedate  German,  schooled 
to  meet  hardship  and  suffering  with  silent 
equanimity,  and  now  standing  mute  and 
stolid — eyes  fixed  in  despair — contrasted 
with  the  excitable  Celt,  voluble  in  his 
bewailings.  Hartland,  like  Tyler,  had 
kept  himself  aloof  from  the  dense  crowd, 
and  so  escaped  being  carried  along  by 
the  frenzied  fugitives  when  the  flames 
first  swept  the  forward  deck.  He  was 
one  of  those  men  whose  perceptions  are 
quickened  by  imminence  of  danger.  He 
noticed  that  the  starboard  wheel-house, 
which  had  not  yet  caught,  afforded  a 
temporary  shelter  from  the  drifting  fire  ; 
and  acting  on  a  sudden  conviction,  he 
climbed  over  the  guards  on  that  side  of 


the  vessel,  a  little  forward  of  the  wheel, 
and  let  himself  down  till  his  feet  rested 
on  the  projecting  wale  of  the  boat.  Thus, 
holding  on  by  the  rail,  he  was  able  to 
maintain  himself  outside  of  the  blazing 
current  until  only  a  few  stragglers  were 
left  on  deck. 

There  he  remained  some  time,  de 
liberately  thinking  over  the  situation. 
As  a  boy  he  had  learned  to  swim,  but 
for  the  last  fifteen  years  he  had  been 
almost  wholly  out  of  practice.  He  called 
to  mind  the  rules  with  which  he  had 
once  been  familiar,  and  the  necessity  of 
keeping  the  eyes  open  so  as  to  elude  the 
grasp  of  drowning  men.  As  he  held  on 
there  the  risk  from  such  a  contingency 
was  painfully  brought  to  his  notice. 
From  time  to  time  several  of  the  passen 
gers  from  the  upper  deck  had  slid  down 
near  him.  At  last  one  heavy  body,  from 
immediately  above,  dropped  so  close  that 
it  brushed  his  clothes  and  almost  carried 
him  down  with  it.  He  turned  to  see 
the  fate  of  this  man.  After  ten  or  fifteen 
seconds  he  saw  him  rise  to  the  surface 
again,  and  with  a  start  recognized  Nelson 
Tyler.  He  was  struggling  violently,  and 
Hartland  observed  that  some  one,  as  the 
stout  miller  rose,  had  clutched  him  by 
the  left  arm  with  the  tenacity  of  despair. 
Both  sank  together,  and  Hartland  saw 
them  no  more. 

Several  times  he  was  about  letting 
himself  down,  but  held  back  because  of 
the  crowds  that  he  saw  rising  to  the  sur 
face  and  wrestling  with  death  and  with 
each  other  beneath  him.  At  last  he  was 
warned  that  his  time  had  come.  Look 
ing  toward  the  bow,  where  several  men, 
imitating  his  example,  were  holding  on 
outside  the  bulwarks,  but  unprotected  by 
the  wheel-house,  he  saw  the  flames  catch 
and  terribly  scorch  their  hands,  the  tor 
ture  causing  them  to  quit  their  grasp  and 
fall  back  headlong  into  the  waves.  Still 
he  watched,  until,  seeing  a  whole  mass  of 
bodies  sink  together,  and  thus  leave  an 
empty  space  just  below  him,  he  com 
mended  his  soul  to  God.  and,  springing 
from  his  support,  sank  at  once  to  the 
bottom. 

After  a  brief  space,  when  his  eyes  had 
cleared  a  little,  he  saw  what  it  has  sel 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


I85 


dotn  been  the  lot  of  human  being  to  wit 
ness.  On  the  sand,  there  in  the  lower 
depths  of  the  lake,  lighted  by  the  lurid 
glare  of  the  burning  boat,  loomed  up 
around  him  ghastly  apparitions  of  per 
sons  drowned  or  drowning — men,  wo 
men,  small  children  too :  some  bodies 
standing  upright  as  if  alive  ;  some  with 
heads  down  and  limbs  floating ;  some 
kneeling  or  lying  on  the  ground :  here  a 
muscular  figure,  arms  flung  out,  fingers 
convulsively  clenched,  eyeballs  glaring  ; 
there  a  slender  woman  in  an  attitude  of 
repose,  her  features  composed,  and  one 
arm  still  over  the  little  boy  stretched  to 
his  last  rest  by  her  side.  Of  every  de 
meanor,  in  every  posture  they  were — a 
subaqueous  multitude !  A  momentary 
gaze  took  it  all  in,  and  then  Hartland, 
smitten  with  horror,  struck  upward,  away 
from  that  fearful  assemblage,  and  reached 
the  surface  of  the  lake  and  the  upper 
world  once  more. 

There  he  found  the  water,  not  only 
around  the  bow,  whence  most  of  the 
passengers  had  been  precipitated,  but 


also  between  himself  and  the  shore,  so 
overspread  with  a  motley  throng  that  he 
resolved  to  avoid  them,  even  at  risk  of 
considerably  lengthening  the  distance. 
He  swam  toward  the  stern,  where  the 
surface  was  comparatively  free,  and  after 
pas-sing  one  or  two  hundred  yards  be 
yond,  seeing  no  one  now  in  the  line  of 
the  land,  which  was  distinctly  visible,  he 
struck  out  vigorously  in  that  direction. 

Then  he  swam  on,  but  with  gradually 
diminishing  strength  and  courage,  and  a 
little  nervous  trembling. 

He  estimated  the  distance  to  the  land 
at  half  a  mile.  It  was,  however,  in 
reality,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  farther.  But 
the  air  was  balmy,  and,  though  the  wind 
blew,  the  waves  were  not  sufficient  to 
impede  a  stout  swimmer.  There  are 
hundreds  among  us  who  can  swim  a 
much  greater  distance.  Yes,  if  they 
start  fair,  mind  and  body  unexhausted. 
But  after  such  a  terribly  wearing  scene 
of  excitement  as  that  —  the  man  fifty- 
seven  years  old,  too — will  his  strength 
hold  out  to  reach  the  land  ? 


PART    X. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 
FOR  LIFE. 

BETWEEN  the  detached  sandbar  on 
which  the  steamer  had  stranded  and 
the  land  the  lake  was  deep.  The  bot 
tom  was  a  smooth  sand,  and  as  one  ap 
proached  the  low,  level  shore  the  water 
shoaled  gradually.  Hartland,  with  great 
exertion,  had  made  about  half  the  dis 
tance  when  a  man — the  first  survivor  he 
had  seen — came  up  behind  him,  swim 
ming  strongly.  As  he  ranged  alongside, 
Hartland  perceived,  with  equal  pleasure 
and  surprise,  that  it  was  the  miller  whom 
so  lately  he  had  seen  go  down  in  what 
seemed  a  death-struggle.  Tyler  called 
out  to  him:  "Take  it  quietly,  Mr.  Hart- 
land  ;  don't  swim  so  hard.  You  can't 
hold  out  so." 

The  other  felt  that  the  caution  was 
timely.  He  became  aware  that  in  his 
eager  efforts  he  had  overtasked  his 
strength.  "You  are  right,"  he  said. 
"  I  have  been  overdoing  it :  I  must  go 
more  slowly." 

"  Can  I  assist  you  in  any  way  ?" 

"  Thank  you,  no.  You'll  need  all  the 
strength  you  have.  Save  yourself.  Don't 
wait  for  me." 

"  Well,"  said  the  other,  as  he  struck 
out  in  advance,  "  perhaps  it's  best.  I 
may  help  you  yet." 

Left  alone,  Hartland  proceeded  more 
leisurely,  seeking  to  husband  his  powers. 
But  for  a  man  of  his  years,  unused  to 
violent  exertion,  the  distance  was  great 
— too  great,  he  began  to  feel,  for  reason 
able  hope  that  he  might  reach  the  shore ; 
for  he  felt  now,  at  every  stroke,  the  strain 
on  his  muscles.  After  a  time,  so  pain 
ful  was  the  effort  that  he  could  scarcely 
throw  out  his  arms.  Then  a  numbness 
crept  over  his  limbs,  gradually  reaching 
his  body.  He  was  resolute,  scorning  all 
weakness  that  suffered  the  mind  to  usurp 
control  over  the  will :  he  struggled,  with 
Puritan  hardihood,-  against  the  nervous 
helplessness  that  was  invading  his  whole 
1 86 


system  ;  yet,  even  while  he  despised  and 
sought  to  repulse  all  imaginative  sensa 
tions,  the  fancy  gained  upon  him  that 
life  was  receding  to  the  brain.  He  had 
no  longer  power  to  strike  out.  After  a 
few  random  and  convulsive  movements, 
as  if  the  body  rebelled  against  the  spell 
that  was  cast  over  it,  he  sank  slowly  to 
the  bottom.  An  anxious  sensation  of 
distress,  oppressing  the  breast,  followed, 
becoming  gradually  more  urgent  and 
painful,  until  in  his  agony  he  instinctively 
struck  for  the  upper  air,  which  he  reached 
almost  immediately.  A  few  deep  inhala 
tions,  and  a  consciousness  that  he  was 
now  in  comparatively  shallow  water,  re 
stored  for  a  minute  or  two  the  exhausted 
powers,  but  after  making  a  little  way 
these  soon  failed  again  :  he  could  no 
longer  maintain  his  mouth  above  water, 
and,  choking  as  a  small  wave  broke  over 
his  face,  he  sank  a  second  time.  Strange, 
this  time,  was  the  transition  !  All  pain, 
all  anxiety  was  gone.  The  world  seemed 
gradually  sinking  away.  As  he  went 
down  a  sense  of  ease  and  comfort  came 
over  him,  while  a  strange  haze  diffused 
around  a  yellow  light.  Then,  as  has 
happened  to  so  many  thus  approaching 
the  term  of  earthly  things,  the  man's 
life  passed  in  review  before  him.  And 
there  he  argued,  before  the  tribunal  of 
his  own  conscience  as  never  before,  the 
question  whether  his  conduct  to  wife  and 
child  had  been  marked  by  that  love  which 
is  the  fulfilling  of  the  Law.  Many  alle 
gations  he  made,  numerous  pleas  he 
brought  forward — urging  the  duty  of  dis 
cipline,  setting  out  the  saving  efficacy  of 
severity,  pleading  the  example  of  Him 
who  scourgeth  every  son  whom  He  re- 
ceiveth.  In  vain !  He  was  too  near 
the  veil.  The  light  from  Beyond,  where 
Love  reigns  evermore,  shone  through  his 
filmy  sophistry.  His  soul  heard  the  ver 
dict — against  him  !  It  heard  more  than 
the  verdict.  It  heard  those  words,  gen 
tle  yet  terrible :  "To  him  that  hath  shown 
mercy  shall  mercy  be  shown."  Then  it 


BETOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


187 


cried  out,  entreating  for  a  little  more 
time  —  a  year — a  single  year  only  —  in 
which  to  atone  for  the  harsh,  unloving 
past.  So  eager  grew  the  longing  that 
it  drew  forth,  from  life's  inmost  depths, 
the  last  residue  of  that  reserve  fund 
which  Nature,  in  kind  foresight,  pro 
vides  against  a  season  of  overwhelming 
exertion;  and  once  more  a  spasmodic 
effort  brought  him  to  the  surface — and  to 
suffering  again.  Yet  he  breathed:  he 
was  still  alive.  How  could  it  be,  after 
that  hour,  so  crowded  with  incidents, 
spent  below  ?  An  hour  ?  That  pro 
tracted  trial,  the  accusation,  the  defence, 
the  pleas  he  had  set  forth,  the  arguments 
he  had  employed,  the  verdict,  the  bitter 
repentance,  the  prayer  for  respite  to 
amend  and  repair  the  wrong, — it  had  all 
passed  in  less  than  a  hundredth  part  of 
the  time  which,  to  his  quickened  con 
sciousness,  had  seemed  so  long.  Some 
twenty  seconds  only  had  he  tarried  be 
low.  A  vague  conviction  of  this  stirred 
hope  of  life  afresh,  and  a  few  feeble 
strokes  carried  him  some  yards  nearer 
to  the  land.  Then  again  that  leaden 
sense  of  exhaustion  !  He  gave  it  up. 
But  this  time,  as  his  limbs  sank  beneath 
him,  the  feet  just  grazed  the  ground. 
It  was  like  the  touch  of  mother  Earth  to 
the  Lybian  giant,  kindling  a  spark  of  life. 
A  faltering  step  or  two  he  made,  and  the 
water  just  mounted  to  his  chin.  Had  he 
reached  the  land  too  late  ?  He  stretched 
out  his  arms  toward  it,  but  the  body, 
powerless,  refused  to  follow.  Even  then 
the  tenacity  of  that  stubborn  spirit  as 
serted  itself.  He  dropped  on  his  knees, 
digging  his  ringers  into  the  sand  and 
dragging  himself  along,  till  he  was  forced 
once  again  to  rise  and  take  breath.  But 
with  the  light  and  the  air  came  back  ex 
cruciating  pain.  Then  an  overwhelming 
torpor  crept  over  sense  and  frame.  His 
limbs  refused  their  office.  Unable  longer 
to  maintain  himself  erect,  he  dropped  on 
the  sand.  A  brief  respite  of  absolute 
rest  there  imparted  a  momentary  courage. 
He  crawled,  under  the  water,  a  few  yards 
farther.  Then  consciousness  and  volition 
gradually  failed.  As  if  by  the  inherent 
powers  of  the  system  uncontrolled  by 
will,  an  automatic  struggle  was  kept  up — 


for  a  few  seconds — no  more  !  That  was 
the  last  life-rally  against  fate.  The  temp 
tation  to  lie  there  quiet,  immovable — all 
care  dismissed,  all  effort  abandoned — 
was  irresistible.  But  what  was  this  ? — 
a  fearful  reminiscence  from  the  scene  he 
had  escaped  ?  No.  These  bright  sparks 
that  flickered  before  his  eyes  were  lam 
bent  and  harmless.  In  his  brain,  too, 
there  seemed  an  internal  light — an  irrad 
iate  globe,  but  genial  and  illuminating, 
not  burning.  Then  came  back  again 
that  wondrous  atmosphere — that  calm, 
effulgent,  pale-yellow  haze  ;  and  with  it 
such  a  sense  of  exquisite  enjoyment  that 
all  desire  to  return  to  the  earth  passed 
from  the  soul  of  the  expiring  man.  A 
smile  over  the  wan  features,  a  slight 
quivering  of  the  limbs,  and  then  all  cog 
nizance  of  the  world  and  its  doings  had 
departed  ;  and  the  spirit  was  entranced 
on  the  verge  of  that  unexplored  phase 
of  life  to  come,  where  the  wicked  cease 
from  troubling  and  the  weary  are  at 
rest. 

What,  meanwhile,  had  been  the  fate 
of  our  sturdy  friend  the  miller  ?  A  more 
practiced  swimmer  than  Hartland,  and, 
though  a  few  years  older,  a  more  power 
ful  man,  he  was  yet  all  but  worn  out 
when  his  feet  first  touched  bottom.  He 
had  full  two  hundred  yards  still  to  go  ; 
and  he  fell  three  or  four  times  while 
slowly  and  painfully  wading  toward 
shore. 

The  land  once  reached,  and  all  motive 
for  exertion  gone,  he  dropped  on  the 
very  edge  of  the  water,  lying  there  some 
five  minutes  or  more  without  power  to 
move.  Then  gradually  he  revived  suf 
ficiently  to  sit  up  and  turn  his  gaze  on 
the  scene  of  horror  he  had  left  behind. 
The  steamboat  was  now  one  sheet  of 
flame  from  stem  to  stern.  Little  else 
than  fire  and  smoke  was  visible  except 
the  lower  portion  of  the  wheel-house, 
where  Tyler  thought  he  could  discern  a 
small  cluster  of  human  beings  still  hold 
ing  on  ;  but  of  this  he  was  not  sure,  the 
distance  was  so  great.  The  boilers,  he 
thought,  could  not  have  burst,  for  he 
had  heard  no  loud  explosion  :  now  and 
then  in  the  stillness  slight  detonations 


188 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


caught  his  ear,  occurring,  no  doubt,  as 
some  barrel  of  inflammable  matter  was 
reached. 

Then  he  looked  to  see  the  fate  of  his 
companions.  Day  was  dawning  and  the 
wind  seemed  to  have  abated.  His  first 
impression  was,  that  the  lake  had  en 
gulfed  the  whole  of  that  gallant  steam 
er's  living  freight,  and  that  he  alone  was 
left  to  tell  the  tale  of  disaster.  But  as 
he  scanned  the  water  more  narrowly  he 
caught  sight,  here  and  there,  of  a  swim- 
met  making  for  the  shore.  Several  of 
the  heads,  however,  sank  as  he  watched 
them.  One  had  approached  more  nearly 
than  the  rest,  but  that,  too,  disappeared. 
Could  it  be  Hartland's  ?  He  looked  for 
it  eagerly.  It  came  in  sight  again,  re 
maining  stationary,  as  if  the  person  had 
reached  footing  and  paused  to  take  breath 
ere  he  walked  out.  He  was  sure  of  it 
now:  Thomas  Hartland  it  was — stretch 
ing  out  his  arms  too,  as  if  imploring 
help.  Again  the  head  sank,  and  again, 
but  for  a  few  seconds  only,  it  came  to 
the  surface.  At  that  moment,  and  be 
fore  it  went  under  to  show  itself  no 
more,  Tyler  took  rapid  note  of  the  direc 
tion  in  which  it  appeared — almost  in  a 
line  from  the  spot  on  which  he  sat  to 
the  stern  of  the  burning  steamer. 

"  I  must  save  him,"  was  his  next 
thought.  But  he  was  fain  to  rest  there 
full  five  terrible  minutes  ere  the  vital 
forces  rallied  so  that  he  could  trust  him 
self  to  the  effort.  Even  then  he  stag 
gered  along  like  one  drunk  or  just  risen 
from  sickness — once  over  a  log  sub 
merged  in  about  two  feet  of  water.  On 
that  he  sat  down  for  a  brief  space  to  re 
cover  spirit  and  vigor.  Precious  mo 
ments  he  knew  well,  but  he  must  rest. 
After  a  time  he  rose,  bracing  his  nerves, 
and  calling  to  mind  that  his  friend  could 
be  now  scarcely  a  hundred  yards  distant. 
After  he  had  advanced,  slowly  and  cau 
tiously,  until  he  supposed  he  must  be  in 
the  vicinity  of  the  body,  he  observed, 
some  six  or  eight  yards  farther  on,  and 
a  little  off  the  line  he  had  marked  out  to 
himself,  a  few  air-bubbles,  as  if  rising 
from  below.  He  remembered  to  have 
heard  that  during  the  last  efforts  of  a 
drowning  person  the  pressure  of  water 


on  the  chest  usually  expels  a  portion  of 
the  air  that  still  remains  in  the  lungs  , 
and  greatly  encouraged  by  the  indication, 
he  approached  the  spot.  There,  after  a 
time,  feeling  around  with  his  feet,  he 
came  upon  the  body.  The  touch  gave 
him  fresh  courage. 

But  what  to  do  next  ?  He  felt  that 
if  he  attempted,  in  that  depth  of  water, 
to  drag  the  drowning  man  by  the  arm, 
his  own  head  under  water  the  while,  he 
would  but  sacrifice  his  life  without  sav 
ing  that  of  Hartland.  In  this  strait,  as 
the  ripple  broke  over  his  shoulder,  and 
something  flapped  lightly  against  his 
cheek,  he  was  reminded  that  one  of  those 
stout  Hibernians  who  had  opposed  his 
efforts  to  reach  the  bow  of  the  boat  had 
grasped  the  upper  portion  of  his  shirt 
sleeve  and  torn  it  half  off.  A  bright 
thought !  Tearing  it  off  entirely  and 
splitting  it  lengthwise  in  two,  he  knotted 
the  pieces  together,  thus  obtaining  an 
impromptu  bit  of  cordage,  one  end  of 
which  he  managed  to  fasten  around 
Hartland's  left  wrist.  By  this  contriv 
ance  he  was  enabled  to  drag  the  body 
along  without  stooping.  Buoyed  up  as 
it  was,  in  a  great  measure,  by  the  water, 
a  slight  pull  sufficed  to  move  it  in  shore. 
Yet  even  that  small  exertion  exceeded 
Tyler's  waning  strength.  At  each  step 
his  limbs  dragged  more  heavily  :  several 
times  he  stumbled  from  sheer  weakness, 
and  he  was  utterly  spent  by  the  time  he 
reached  the  log  where,  on  his  way  out, 
he  had  rested.  Forgetting  where  it  was, 
he  fell  over  it  as  before,  but  not,  as  be 
fore,  to  rise  again.  There  were  less 
than  six  inches  of  water  over  his  burly 
frame,  yet  he  lay  there  helpless  and  in 
sensible  as  the  friend  he  had  striven  so 
hard  to  save. 

***** 
Suddenly  he  found  himself  at  home 
again,  before  his  own  dwelling ;  and 
strangely  enough,  without  question  in  his 
mind  as  to  how  he  came  there.  He 
heard  Ellen's  voice,  and  saw  her  issue 
from  the  house  and  cross  to  the  well,  a 
few  steps  off.  She  had  an  old-fashioned 
pitcher  in  her  hand,  the  lower  half  blue, 
the  upper  white,  with  grapes  and  grape- 
leaves  embossed  over  it — a  legacy  from 


BEYOND    THE   BREAKERS. 


189 


his  dead  mother  which  the  miller  highly 
prized. 

Beside  the  well  stood  Hiram  Goddart, 
Tyler's  principal  hand  in  the  mill,  a 
good-looking,  brisk  young  fellow,  with  a 
tin  washbowl  on  a  small  bench  before 
him,  drying  face  and  hands  after  his 
morning  ablution. 

" Good-day,  Miss  Ellen,"  he  said, 
"  I'm  sorry  to  see  you  looking  pale  this 
mornin'.  Are  you  ailin'  ?" 

"  Not  ailing,  thank  you,  Hiram,  but 
I  had  uneasy  dreams  last  night,  and 
haven't  got  over  them  yet." 

"  You  expect  the  old  man  here  this 
evening  ?" 

"Or  to-morrow,  some  time." 

"I'll  be  blithe  to  see  him,  Miss 
Ellen,"  blushing  and  hesitating.  "  I 
had  a  letter  from  Uncle  Samuel  yester 
day  :  he's  well-to-do,  and  has  neither 
chick  nor  child  to  do  for.  He's  willin', 
if  I  need  it,  to  send  me  a  thousand  dol 
lars  or  two  to  set  me  up  in  the  world. 
I  think  your  father  likes  me  well  enough. 
He'll  have  to  go  partly  in  debt  to  pay  for 
that  machinery  he's  buying  ;  if  I  raise 
the  two  thousand,  he  might  take  me  in, 
for  a  partner,  like,  in  the  millin'  business. 
Then  I  wouldn't  be  a  hirelin',  and  may 
be —  Ellen's  eyes  glistened  with  tears, 
not  of  joy :  her  rustic  lover's  quick  eye 
saw  that,  and  his  countenance  fell. 
"  You  wouldn't  let  me  ask  the  old  man" 
— he  said  it  despondingly — "  if  he  would 
trust  you  to  me  ?  You'd  be  very  lonely 
if—" 

"  Oh,  Hiram,"  the  girl  cried,  her  sobs 
reaching  Tyler's  ears,  « it's  cruel  of  you 
to  talk  that  way,  and  father  gone,  and 
only  last  week  seven  people  killed  when 
the  rail-cars  ran  off  the  track.  And 
then  you  know  I've  told  you,  as  plainly 
as  I  could  say  it — " 

"Yes,  Miss  Ellen,  you  needn't  repeat 
it,"  said  the  poor  fellow.  "  You  never 
gave  me  no  encouragement:  I'll  always 
say  that."  Then,  taking  the  pitcher 
gently  from  her  hand  :  "  Let  me  fill  it 
for  you." 

Ellen  thanked  him,  voice  and  hands 
trembling.  He  drew  a  fresh  bucketful 
and  filled  the  pitcher.  As  she  received 
it  from  him,  it  slipped  through  her  hands 


and  fell  to  the  ground,  breaking  in 
pieces. 

"  How  clumsy  I  am  !"  she  said  :  "and 
father's  favorite  pitcher,  that  grandmother 
gave  him  !  Oh  dear  !  But  don't  wait, 
Hiram.  I'll  send  Nancy  with  another. 
Breakfast  will  be  ready  in  ten  minutes." 

With  that  she  recrossed  to  the  house, 
passing,  Tyler  thought,  close  to  him. 
Then  it  first  occurred  to  him  as  some 
thing  strange  that  neither  of  them  took 
notice  of  his  presence — that  they  spoke 
of  him  as  absent.  And  then  the  whole 
scene  faded  away :  he  shivered  with 
cold ;  seemed  to  be  lying  out  some 
where:  felt  hands  turning  him  over, 
and  heard  a  rough  voice  saying,  "  He's 
no  that  awfu'  cauld.  Hell  aiblins  come 
to.  I  dinna  think  he'll  coup  the  cran 
yet."* 

"  He's  a'maist  deed,  faither  :  he  does 
na  stir,"  said  another  voice. 

"That's  naithin',  Tarn.  Nae  doot 
he's  sair  forfoughten.  A'  droukit  folk 
is,  that's  been  lyin'  a  blink,  wi'  the  water 
aboon  them.  And  he  tumbled  owerjust 
as  we  lap  the  fence  o'  Squire  Doolittle's 
cornfield.  He  must  ha'  laid  there  four 
or  five  minutes  or  ever  we  gat  at  him 
and  pou'd  him  out.  I  wonder  what  on 
airth  the  doited  carle  was  aboot  ?  Dinna 
ye  mind,  Tarn,  that  he  was  wadin'  in  and 
staggerin'  as  if  he  was  foil,  when  we  first 
cam  ower  the  hill  and  got  sight  o'  him  ? 
He  must  ha'  gane  clean  wud,  the  crazy 
cheel,  to  try  it  the  second  time,  and  he 
no  able  to  stand.  Hech,  sirs  !"  he 
added,  as  a  deep  sigh,  half  groan,  burst 
from  Tyler,  «  whatten  an  ausome  grane 
was  that !  He's  waukin'  up.  Tarn, 
help  me  turn  him  ower  on  his  brisket : 
they  say  that's  gude  for  them  that's  been 
drowninV'f 

And  when  he  had  laid  him  face  down 
ward,  the  kind  fellow  took  off  a  heavy 
frieze  coat  he  wore  and  laid  it  over  his 
patient.  Then  he  put  his  hand  on  the 
region  of  the  heart. 

*  A  few  words,  here  and  there,  in  the  way  of  glos 
sary,  may  be  acceptable  :  Aiblins,  perhaps.  Coup  Hie 
cran,  kick  the  bucket — die. 

t  Sair  forfoughten,  quite  exhausted.  Drcntklt, 
drenched.  Blink,  a  little  while.  Doited  carle,  stu 
pid  fellow.  Fou,  drunk.  ^ud,  ma  1.  A  usome 
grane,  awful  groan.  Brisket,  breast. 


I9o 


BEYOND  THE  BREAKERS. 


"  Is  the  breath  in  him  yet?"  asked  the 
son. 

« 'Deed  is  it.  He'll  be  speakin', 
belyve.  He's  a  wee  dozened  yet ;  that's 
a'."*  Then  to  Tarn,  as  he  called  him  : 
"  My  bairn,  tak'  aff  that  bit  coatie  o' 
yours  and  wrap  his  feet  in't."  Tom  did 
as  he  was  bid,  starting,  however,  as  he 
laid  hold  of  one  foot :  it  moved  in  his 
grasp.  "The  man's  alive,  daddie,"  he 
said,  "  sure  enough  :  he  can  kick." 

The  father  raised  Tyler's  head,  placing 
his  hand  under  the  forehead.  A  little 
water  came  from  the  mouth  :  then  the 
eyes  opened.  After  a  fruitless  effort  or 
two,  the  miller  said  :  "  Am  I  here  yet  ?" 

"'Deed  an'  ye  are,"  replied  the  other. 
"  Whar  did  ye  think  ye  had  gotten  to  ? 
It's  no  very  liks  the  land  o'  the  leal, 
here — d'ye  think  it  is  ? — wi'  this  cauld 
soakit  sand  anaith  ye,  and  you  in  thae 
screeded  duds,  and  us  twa  in  our  sark 
sleeves."  f 

The  words  were  not  very  intelligible 
to  the  miller,  but  he  felt  that  this  was 
real.  "I'd  like  to  sit  up,"  he  said, 
faintly.  They  assisted  him,  but  he  was 
so  weak  that  but  for  Tom,  who  planted 
himself  behind  him  and  sustained  his 
back,  he  must  have  fallen  over  again. 

Then  he  took  it  all  in:  the  sun  risen; 
the  lake,  almost  calm  now ;  the  steamer, 
still  enveloped  in  flames  ;  three  or  four 
stragglers  crawling  up  the  sand  a  little 
way  off,  and  several  men  from  the  coun 
try  hastening  to  their  assistance.  That 
brought  back  to  his  mind  his  own  efforts 
to  rescue  Hartland. 

«  Mr.  " 

"  My  name's  Alexander  Cameron. 
Ye  may  ca'  me  Alick  if  ye  like  :  maist 
folks  do." 

"  You've  saved  my  life,  Mr.  Cameron." 

"  Me  and  Tarn,  yes.  It  was  easy 
done.  There  wasna'  twa  foot  water 
where  ye  lay." 

"  There's  another  man  there  :  I  was 
trying  to  drag  him  out  when  I  fell." 

"  An'  that  was  what  took  ye  into  the 
water  when  ye  were  yinst  out  ?  Aweel, 
ye're  a  spunkie  cheel,  if  ye  are  auld.  So 

*  Belyve,  by  and  by.     Dozened,  stupefied. 
t  Land  o"  the  leal,  land  of  the  faithful — heaven. 
Screeded  duds,  torn  rags.     Sark  sleeves,  shirt  sleeves. 


there's  anither  man  in  yonder  ?  I'm 
thinkin'  his  parritch  is  cauld  by  this.  A 
gude  half  hour  he's  been  lyin'  there. 
But  if  it'll  ease  yer  mind  ony,  Tarn  and 
me'll  try  and  howk  him  up.  Can  ye  sit 
yer  lane,  d'ye  think  ?"J 

The  miller  entreated  them  not  to  mind 
him.  After  searching  a  few  minutes, 
they  dragged  Hartland's  body  on  shore 
and  laid  it  out  on  the  land,  near  to 
where  Tyler  was.  Cameron  examined 
it  carefully.  The  veins  of  the  head 
were  swelled ;  the  face  was  blue  and 
livid ;  the  tongue  was  visible  between 
the  lips,  which  were  covered  with  white 
froth  ;  not  the  slightest  warmth  over  the 
heart  or  elsewhere.  Even  Tyler,  who 
contrived  to  creep  up  to  the  body, 
thought  the  case  desperate.  They  em 
ployed  the  usual  means  of  restoration, 
however — cold  water  on  the  face,  upward 
friction  on  the  limbs  and  body,  without 
obtaining  the  least  sign  of  life.  "  They 
say  sneeshin's  gude  for't,"§  said  Came 
ron,  taking  from  his  pocket  a  small 
sheep's  horn,  or  mill  as  he  called  it, 
containing  snuff,  and  inserting  a  portion 
of  the  contents  into  the  nostrils  of  the 
drowned  man. 

Ten  minutes  had  elapsed  in  these 
fruitless  endeavors,  when  a  young  fellow, 
clad  in  homespun,  his  small  pocket-sad 
dlebags  indicating  his  profession,  gal 
loped  toward  them  from  an  inland  road. 

"Od,  but  I'm  fain  to  see  ye,  doctor," 
said  Cameron:  "here's  some  gear  needs 
your  reddin'.  It's  past  me,  ony  way."|| 

The  young  doctor,  dismounting,  ex 
amined  the  case  with  solemn  and  critical 
air,  shook  his  head,  and  said, 

"  Do  you  know  how  long  this  patient 
has  been  under  water,  Alick  ?" 

"  A  matter  o'  half  an  hour  and  mair." 

"  It's  almost  hopeless.  There  are 
cases  on*  record  of  resuscitation  after 
more  than  half  an  hour's  immersion,  but 
they  are  rare." 

"  I  gied  him  some  sneeshin',  doctor. 
Was  that  a'  right  ?" 

"Quite   right.      It   stimulates  the   in- 

%  Yinst,  once.  Parritch,  porridge.  Howk  ^tp,  dig 
up.  Yer  lane,  by  yourself. 

§  Sneeshin,  snuff. 

||  Fain,  glad.  Some  gear  needs  your  reddM,  a  job 
that  needs  your  care. 


BEYOND    THE   BREAKERS. 


191 


terior  surface  of  the  nostrils,  and  tends 
to  excite  circulation." 

"It  was  wasted  on  the  puir  bodie  : 
he'll  never  need  bicker*  nor  sneeshin- 
mill  mair." 

In  the  mean  time  the  doctor  had  been 
feeling  Tyler's  pulse  as  he  lay  listening 
to  their  conversation.  "  Alick,"  he  said, 
"ye'd  better  be  attending  to  the  living. 
This  man's  made  a  narrow  escape  of  it, 
and  he  ought  to  be  in  a  warm  bed  this 
very  minute,  instead  of  here  on  the  wet 
sand.  Take  my  horse,  if  he  can  sit 
him,  get  him  home  as  fast  as  ye  can, 
and — ye've  got  some  brandy  or  whisky 
in  the  house  ?" — 

"  Oo,  ay  :  we  aye  keep  a  sma'  drap- 
pie :  ye  never  ken  when  it  may  be 
needed." 

"  Well,  it's  badly  needed  now.  The 
man's  chilled  through." 

Tyler  declined  the  offer  of  the  horse, 
but  on  receiving  from  the  doctor  the  as 
surance  that  he  would  not  leave  Hart- 
land  until  every  means  of  restoration  had 
been  exhausted,  he  consented  to  go. 
Alick  made  him  put  on  the  frieze  coat, 
and  he  and  Tom  supported  him,  one  on 
each  side. 

It  was  hardly  three-quarters  of  a  mile 
to  the  Scotchman's  cabin,  but  the  mill 
er's  sufferings  during  that  short  journey 
were  terrible.  It  seemed  to  him  as  if  a 
hundred  needles  were  pricking  him  from 
head  to  foot.  His  head  swam  :  he  was 
forced  to  sit  down  and  rest  a  dozen  times 
on  the  route.  When  they  came  to  the 
squire's  fence,  Cameron  and  his  son  had 
to  lift  him  over.  The  field  had  been  re 
cently  ploughed.  The  Scotchman  look 
ed  at  it  doubtingly. 

"  He's  unco  silly,"  he  said  to  Tom, 
"  and  this  bit  bawk's  hard  to  win  through. 
We  maun  jist  carry  him.rf 

And,  in  spite  of  Tylers  remonstrance, 
the  stout  farmer  and  his  son  picked  him 
up  between  them. 

"  He's  a  buircllyj  carle,"  said  Cam 
eron,  quite  out  of  breath,  as  they  set 
him  down  on  the  other  side  of  the 
field.  "I'se  warrant  him  to  weigh  gude 

*  Bicker,  wooden  dish. 

t  Unco  silly •,  very  weak.     Bawk,  ploughed  land. 

\  Buirdly,  bulky,  broad-built. 


fourteen  stane.  What's  your  callin', 
stranger  ?" 

"  I'm  a  miller.  Nelson  Tyler  is  my 
name.  I  live  at  Chiskauga :  it's  a  vil 
lage  near  the  Indiana  line." 

"  Tyler  ?  That's  a  gude  Scotch  name 
— a'maist  as  gude  as  Cameron.  Aweel, 
we'll  hae  ye  hame  in  a  jiffy,  and  I'll  gar 
Grannie  pit  on  some  het  water,  and  we'll 
hap  ye  up  and  rub  ye  weel.  Ye're  feck 
less  the  noo,  but  the  mistress  has  some 
auld  Ferintosh  in  the  aumbry  that'll  set 
ye  up  ;  and  we'll  hae  ye  hale  and  hearty 
the  morn."  Then,  after  a  pause  :  "We'd 
best  be  steerin',  gin  ye  think  ye  can 
hirple  on.  They  bare  feet  o'  yours  '11 
be  gettin'  cauld."§ 

Tyler  could  not  help  looking  down 
disconsolately  at  his  own  forlorn  condi 
tion  :  his  drawers  were  the  only  nether 
garment  he  had  saved.  Cameron  under 
stood  the  look. 

« Ye  left  yer  breeks  on  that  burnin' 
boat,  did  ye  ?  But  never  fash  yere 
thoom  about  that,  man  :  there  was  mair 
tint  at  Sherra-moor.  I  hae  a  pair  o' 
shoon  and  some  orra-duds  at  hame : 
they're  maybe  a  thought  ower  tight  for 
ye,  but  ye're  welcome  to  them  till  ye  can 
do  better.';|| 

The  miller  thanked  him  warmly,  and 
as  the  rest  of  the  way  lay  over  level  pas 
ture-field,  he  contrived  to  walk,  though 
at  each  step  the  leaden  weights  that 
seemed  to  clog  his  heels  grew  heavier. 
By  the  time  he  reached  the  spacious 
double  cabin  a  feeling  of  stupor  and  utter 
helplessness  came  over  him,  and  ere  a 
chair  could  be  brought  he  had  sunk  on 
the  floor. 

They  carried  him  to  the  fire,  and  "the 
mistress,"  as  Alick  called  his  hale,  stout, 
red-cheeked  wife  (who  bore  her  forty- 
odd  years  as  if  they  scarcely  numbered 
thirty),  bustled  about,  and  soon  had  a 
warm  bed  ready,  in  which  Tyler  was 

§  Gar,  make.  Feckless  the  noo,  exhausted  just  at 
present.  Auld  Ferintosh  in  the  aumbry,  old  whisky 
in  the  pantry ;  so  called  because  a  certain  Forbes  was 
allowed,  in  1690,  to  distill  whisky  on  his  barony  of 
Ferintosh  in  Cromartyshire,  free  of  duty.  Steerin' 
stirring,  moving.  Hirple,  to  walk  lamely  or  with 
difficulty. 

||  Mair  tint  at  Sherra-moor,  more  lost  at  (the  battle 
of)  Sheriff  Moor  (an  action  disastrous  to  the  Scottish 
arms,  fought  in  1715).  Orra-duds,  spare  clothing. 


192 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


laid.  "Grannie"  was  greatly  exercised 
just  at  first,  rushing  about  the  house 
without  any  definite  purpose,  exclaiming, 
« The'  Lord's  sake  !  Gude  guide  us  ! 
That  bangs  a'  !"  But  she  soon  resumed 
her  usual  equanimity,  put  a  large  kettle 
on  to  boil,  and  was  ready,  with  her  ex 
perience  of  threescore-and-ten,  to  pre 
scribe  various  infallible  remedies  for  the 
exhausted  man ;  chief  among  them  a 
warm  potent  potion,  sweetened  with 
brown  sugar  —  a  Scotchman  despises 
white  sugar  when  whisky  is  concerned — 
and  of  this  palatable  mixture  the  "  Fer- 
intosh"  which  Tyler's  host  had  promised 
him  formed  a  chief  ingredient. 

The  miller's  sensations,  as  he  lay 
there  dream -haunted  and  bewildered, 
were  of  a  singular  character.  The  sheets, 
as  he  touched  them,  seemed  as  thick  as 
the  coarsest  sailcloth,  the  blankets  like 
inch  boards.  His  own  body  appeared 
to  him  to  have  stretched  out  to  gigantic 
proportions.  He  felt  as  if  he  were  eight 
or  ten  feet  long,  and  as  if  it  were  im 
possible  that  the  bed  on  which  he  lay 
should  contain  him.  Then  there  was  a 
sinking  down,  down,  as  if  to  some  depth 
impossible  to  reach.  He  thought  the 
man  who  had  dragged  him  to  the  bottom 
of  the  lake  ere  he  could  get  free  of  the 
boat  had  again  clutched  his  arm.  He 
started  in  terror,  struggling,  to  free  him 
self,  and  rolled  over  on  the  cabin  floor. 
When  they  came  to  lift  him  up  he  stared 
wildly  round  him,  muttering,  "  I  couldn't 
help  it :  it  was  his  life  or  mine." 

After  they  had  covered  him  up  again, 
and,  at  Grannie's  instigation,  put  some 
bottles  of  warm  water  to  his  feet,  he  fell 
into  a  troubled  doze,  which  lasted  an 
hour  or  two. 

When  he  woke,  he  saw,  lying  on  a 
bed  opposite  to  him,  a  stout,  portly,  rud 
dy-faced  man,  in  full  dress,  with  a  shin 
ing  black  satin  waistcoat  and  a  massive 
silver  watch-chain.  The  miller  rubbed 
his  eyes,  wondering  if  that  cou'ld  possibly 
be  the  same  gaurmand  he  remembered 
to  have  seen  only  the  day  before  at  din 
ner  on  shipboard,  stuffing  himself  with 
delicacies  till  one  wondered  where  he 
found  room  to  stow  them  away,  and  call 
ing  for  an  additional  bottle  of  champagne 


the  captain's  supply  was  exhausted. 
The  very  same  !  That  expanse  of  satin 
waistcoat  was  unmistakable.  But  how 
could  he  ever  have  come  here — in  all 
that  toggery  too  ? 

"  Is  it  possible" — he  said  to  his  host, 
who  had  come  to  ask  if  he  felt  better— 
"  is  it  possible  that  fellow  with  the  watch- 
chain  got  off  from  the  boat  ?" 
'Deed  did  he." 

And  swam  ashore  with  all  his  clothes 
on?" 

Hoot  na  !    He  couldna  soom,  buskit 
that  gait.*     There  was  a  bit  coble  gaed 
out  to  the  steamboat — ; 
"  A  coble  ?" 

"  That's  a  fishin'-boat,  ye  ken — 
"It    brought    off   some   of   the   pas 
sengers  ?" 

"  A  matter  o'  twenty  o'  them,  they 
say.  They  grippet  on  to  the. big  wheel, 
and  bided  there  till  the  boat  took  them 
awa'  ;  yon  chiel  amang  the  lave.  It's  a 
wonder  to  me  how  siccan  cattle  as  that 
hae  a'  the  luck :  the  Lord  aboon,  He 
kens  the  gowk  was  na  worth  savin'. 
And  there's  anither  o'  them  ;  that  Dutch 
body,  sittin'  by  the  chimlie-lug."f 

The  man  to  whom  he  referred  was  a 
Jewish-featured  German,  some  fifty  or 
sixty  years  old,  sitting  on  a  rocking-chair 
by  the  fire,  bemoaning  his  fate.  "Ach, 
mine  Gott !"  he  repeated  :  "  mine  gelt 
ischt  all  gone  !  Gott  im  Himmel !  Was 
soil  ich  thun  ?  Verdammter  Zufall  ! 
Every  thaler  ischt  gone  !" 

Cameron  went  up  to  him.  "Auld 
man,"  he  said,  with  some  asperity, 
"you've  been  grainin'  aboot  that  siller 
ye've  lost  till  I'm  sick  and  tirecl  hearin' 
ye.  Ye  seem  to  hae  clean  forgotten  that 
yer  life's  been  saved  the  day,  when  hun 
dreds  o'  better  men  have  gone  to  Davie's 
locker  ;  and  deil  hae  me  if  I  think  ye've 
said  a  be-thankit  for  it  yet." 

"Mine  life  !"  rocking  himself  violent 
ly  to  and  fro.  "  Was  ischt  mine  li/e 
goot  for  if  mine  gelt  ischt  all  lost  and 
gone  ?" 

"No    muckle,    I'll    agree;    but  then 

*  Couldna  soom,  buskit  that  gait,  could  not  swim, 
dressed  up  that  fashion. 

t  A  mang  the  lave,  among  the  rest.  Chirnlie-lug, 
fireside  (literally,  chimney-ear). 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS 


193 


they  say  we  should  a'  be  thankfu'  for 
sma'  favors.  Was  ye  yer  lane  ?  Had 
ye  nae  wife  ?" 

"  Ach,  ya  !  But  mine  gelt  ischt  all 
gone.  Mine  wife  ischt  all  gone  too." 

"Won't  somebody  kill  that  d— d 
Dutchman  ?"  roared  out  Satin  Waist 
coat  from  his  bed. 

"  Ye  may  come  an'  kill  him  yersel', 
for  a'  me,"  said  Alick,  coolly,  "but  I 
dinna  think  he's  worth  it :  a  man  that'll 
set  up  his  money  for  an  idol,  as  thae 
pagan  Jews  did  that  gowden  calf  in  the 
wilderness,  and  then  let  the  mistress 
come  in  ahint  a' — like  Lot's  wife  when 
she  turned  to  a  pillar  o'  saut — may  gang 
his  ain  gait  for  onything  I  care."* 

Amid  such  talk  the  day  passed.  Many 
dropped  in  before  evening  ;  some  from 
the  wreck — others  to  hear  the  particulars 
of  so  terrible  an  accident.  It  appeared 
that  a  boat  which  had  put  out  early  in 
the  morning  had  picked  up  twenty-one 
persons  —  one  woman  among  them — 
chiefly  those  who  had  saved  themselves 
by  clinging  to  the  lower  portion  of  the 
starboard  wheel ;  of  which  number, 
strange  to  say,  was  a  child  not  more 
than  seven  or  eight  years  old — the  son 
of  an  English  emigrant,  it  appeared. 
Father,  mother  and  four  children  were 
among  the  lost,  and  the  poor  little  or 
phan,  but  a  few  hours  before  member  of 
a  cheerful,  thriving  family,  now  stood  in 
this  Western  cabin  a  solitary  estray,  with 
out  relative  or  friend.  Grannie  took 
him  on  her  knee.  "Hae,  there's  a 
piece,"  she  said,  handing  him  a  large 
slice  of  bread  and  butter  :  "  dinna  greet, 
my  bonny  dawtie  :  yer  faither  and  yer 
mither's  forsook  ye,  but  the  Lord  '11  tak 
ye  up." 

Six  persons  only,  besides  Tyler,  saved 
themselves  by  swimming  —  in  all  but 
twenty-eight  surv  vors  out  of  four  hun 
dred  and  twenty  souls.  The  captain 
was  found  amrng  the  dead,  his  arm 
around  his  wife.  Not  a  few  perished, 
as  had  nearly  been  the  miller's  fate,  in 
shallow  water.  Many  more  would  doubt 
less  have  reached  the  shore  by  swim 
ming  but  for  the  fatal  encumbrance  of 
clothes.  All  appeared  to  have  retained 

*  Ahint,  behind.     Saut,  salt. 


their  shirts,  the  greater  number  their 
drawers,  and  many  bodies  washed  on 
shore  were  of  persons,  like  him  of  the 
watch-chain,  fully  dressed.  Pity  they 
had  not  followed  the  example — recorded 
by  Saint  Pierre  in  his  world-renowned 
story — of  the  sailor  on  the  deck  of  the 
Saint  Gdran,  "tout  nu  et  nerveux  comme 
Hercule,"  who,  though  he  failed  like 
Paul  to  rescue  Virginia,  yet,  by  the  wise 
precaution  he  took,  succeeded  in  saving 
his  own  life. 

The  young  physician,  who  called  late 
in  the  afternoon,  brought  word  that 
though  he  had  persisted  for  several  hours 
in  his  endeavors  to  save  Hartland,  they 
had  been  ineffectual,  and  that  arrange 
ments  were  already  being  made  for  his 
interment. 

An  hour  before  sunset  a  four-horse 
wagon,  with  several  chairs  and  one  or 
two  feather-beds,  drove  up  to  the  cabin. 
It  had  been  sent  by  the  innkeeper  of  a 
village  some  tive  or  six  miles  distant,  in 
case  any  of  the  survivors  chose  to  re 
turn  with  it  to  his  hotel.  The  miller 
decided  to  go,  in  spite  of  Cameron's 
hospitable  invitation,  kindly  pressed,  to 
remain  with  him  a  day  or  two. 

Satin  Waistcoat  went  also,  of  course. 
He  pulled  out  a  purse,  apparently  well 
filled,  and  came  toward  his  host  to  pay 
for  breakfast  and  dinner.  "  Put  up  yer 
siller,"  said  the  latter,  a  little  sharply. 
"  We're  no  bien  to  brag  o'.  But  I  dinna 
keep  a  public,  to  be  seekin'  pay  for  a 
meal's  vittals  ;  and  naither  am  I  a  beg- 
garman,  to  need  an  aumos.f  Ye're  wel 
come  to  what  ye've  had." 

When  they  were  taking  leave,  Tyler 
asked  Cameron  what  he  intended  to  do 
with  the  little  orphan. 

"  Oo,  we'll  jist  let  him  rin  with  the 
bairns,  and  gie  him  a  bite  and  a  sup  till 
better  turns  up." 

"Suppose  I  were  to  take  him  and 
make  a  miller  of  him  ?" 

"Ye  hae  a  rale  leal  Scotch  heart, 
Mr.  Tyler,  anaith  that  broad  brisket 
o'  yours.  I'm  unco  glad  me  and  Tarn 
pou'd  ye  out.  It'll  be  the  makin'  o'  the 
bairn." 

*  Were  no  bien  to  brag o\  we're  not  rich  to  boast 
of.    Aumos,  alms. 


I94 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


«  The  Lord  be  thankit !"  said  Gran 
nie.  "  I  kenned  weel  He  would  baud 
till  His  word." 

"  Will  you  come  and  spend  a  week  or 
two  at  the  mill  this  summer  or  fall,"  said 
Tyler  to  Cameron,  ."  and  bring  Tom  with 
you  ?  Maybe  he'd  like  to  be  a  miller 
too.  I'd  give  him  the  best  kind  of  a 
chance." 

"  I'm  no  misdoubtin'  ye  would,  and 
Tarn's  gleg  at  the  uptak.*  But  I  canna 
weel  spare  him  frae  the  farm.  Ony  way, 
I'se  come  and  see  ye  the  first  chance." 

« I  won't  say  a  word  about  these 
trowsers  and  the  hat  and  the  jacket  you 
made  me  take." 

"  Ye'd  best  no,  or  we'll  hae  a  quarrel. 
But  I'll  tell  ye  what :  we'll  mak  a  niffer,f 
and  ye'll  gie  Willie  here — that's  what  the 
wean  ca's  himsel' — ye'll  gie  him  a  pair 
o'  Sunday  breeks  and  a  blue  Scotch  bon 
net  wi'  a  tassel  to't.  Wad  ye  like  that, 
Willie  ?" 

Willie  did  not  quite  understand  the 
kindness  that  was  intended  him,  but 
when  Tyler, laughing, asked  him,  "Would 
you  like  to  go  in  that  wagon,  Willie,  and 
sit  beside  the  driver  and  see  the  horses  ?" 
the  little  fellow  clapped  his  hands,  and 
then  gave  one  of  them  to  Tyler. 

So,  with  many  thanks  to  the  mistress 
and  to  Grannie,  and  a  hearty  shake  of 
the  hand  from  Tarn,  they  bade  good-bye 
to  the  hospitable  Scotchman. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

THE   BODY  THAT  WAS    TOO   LONG    FOR    THE 
BOOT. 

EITHER  Grannie's  prescription  warm 
and  strong,  or  her  son's  dry  humor,  or 
else  perhaps  the  excitement  of  the  day, 
fed  by  constant  news  touching  the  fate 
of  his  fellow-sufferers,  had,  at  the  mo 
ment  Tyler  left  Cameron's  log  cabin, 
caused  the  miller  almost  to  forget  his 
aches  and  pains.  But  these  were  griev 
ously  recalled  on  the  journey,  brief  as  it 
was,  over  a  rough  wagon-road  to  the 
village  tavern.  Though  he  had  lain 
down  on  one  of  the  feather-beds,  each 

*  Gleg'  at  the  uptak,  quick  at  learning, 
t  Niffer,  exchange,  swap. 


jolt  of  that  springless  wagon  was  tor 
ture.  He  grew  weaker,  mile  by  mile. 
The  landlord  and  a  stable-boy  had  to 
carry  him  up  stairs  to  bed,  on  which  he 
sank,  body  and  mind  utterly  exhausted, 
and  scarcely  conscious  where  he  was  or 
how  he  came  there. 

A  doctor  was  sent  for,  who  shook  his 
head  and  spoke  a  little  doubtingly  of  the 
case,  prescribing  nourishing  food,  given 
often  and  in  small  quantities,  with  oc 
casional  stimulants.  Mounting  his  horse, 
he  said  to  the  landlord :  "  The  man 
would  do  well  enough,  and  might  be  up 
to-morrow,  if  he  had  twenty  years  less 
on  his  shoulders.  But  age  tells.  I  can 
ride  Speckleback"  —  patting  his  neck — 
"as  far  in  a  day,  for  all  his  fifteen  years, 
as  I  could  when  he  was  a  seven-year- 
old  ;  but  when  patients  are  plentiful  and 
far  apart,  and  I  put  him  through  his 
fifty  miles  before  night,  then  I  have  to 
ride  the  filly  for  two  or  three  days  till 
his  old  legs  supple  again.  He's  a  stout 
fellow  for  his  age,  that  lodger  of  yours, 
but  even  if  there's  no  funeral,  he  isn't 
likely  to  be  up  for  a  week.  You  may 
bring  him  through  by  good  nursing: 
that's  the  main  thing." 

Tyler  remained  for  several  days,  sunk 
in  a  -strange  sort  of  lethargy — a  dreamy 
state,  the  past  and  the  present  inextri 
cably  mixed  ;  his  mind  sometimes  en 
gaged  with  dim  and  shadowy  reproduc 
tions  of  the  horrors  he  had  passed 
through,  sometimes  visited  by  peaceful 
visions  similar  to  those  that  soothed  Hart- 
land's  dying  moments.  But  there  was 
once  in  each  twenty-four  hours  a  sort  of 
lucid  interval,  in  which  the  patient  took 
note  of  things  around  him  and  was  com 
paratively  clear-headed.  This  occurred 
from  two  to  three  o'clock  each  morning, 
lasting,  at  first,  about  an  hour.  Except 
during  these  intervals  he  could  not  eat. 
While  they  lasted  the  chief  thing  Tyler 
noticed  was  the  appearance  of  a  woman 
at  the  foot  of  his  bed  :  she  might  be  of 
any  age  above  sixty — parchment-faced, 
with  snow-white  hair  and  cap,  silent, 
and,  except  that  her  fingers  knitted  rap 
idly  and  mechanically,  absolutely  im 
movable — no  change  in  the  cold,  impas 
sive  face,  the  gray  eyes  fixed  on  him 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


'95 


Tyler  rubbed  his  own  eyes,  but  there  it 
was  still.  C9uld  it  be  an  apparition — 
his  grandmother,  who,  he  recollected  to 
have  heard,  was  a  celebrated  knitter? 
If  so,  it  must  have  been  a  ghost  of  the 
ministering  kind,  for  it  glided  slowly  to 
the  fire,  stirred  something  that  had  been 
set  to  simmer  there  in  a  small  pot,  and 
brought  the  sick  man,  by  and  by.  a  glass 
— not  of  nectar,  unless  nectar  be  a  bev 
erage  much  resembling  warm  egg-nog 
with  whisky  in  it.  It  did  not  say  any 
thing  to  him,  however,  merely  signing 
to  him  to  drink  what  it  presented  :  then, 
after  setting  the  empty  tumbler  on  a 
small  table  at  the  bed-head,  it  resumed 
its  station  and  its  knitting,  and  the  gray 
eyes  watched  him  with  stony  gaze  as  be 
fore.  Then  the  old  crone  was  mixed  up 
in  his  dreams  ;  sometimes  extending  a 
hand  to  help  him  out  of  the  water — some 
times  telling  him  that  she  would  meet 
him  soon  in  the  next  world. 

Gradually  the  intermittent  periods  of 
lucidity  became  longer — two,  three,  four 
hours.  He  was  coming  back  to  life, 
and  the  figure  at  the  foot  of  the  bed 
emerged  from  its  ghostly  phase — feeling 
his  pulse,  dropping,  now  and  then,  a 
word  or  two  as  to  his  wants  :  in  short, 
settling  down  into  a  careful,  flesh-and- 
blood  nurse,  albeit  singularly  taciturn. 

On  the  fourth  day  a  slight  fever  su 
pervened.  That  abated,  however,  and 
on  the  sixth  Tyler  sat  up,  with  a  feeling 
of  returning  health  and  a  keen  sense 
that  the  sunshine  had  never  before  look 
ed  half  so  bright. 

He  had  replenished  his  wardrobe  from 
a  ready-made  clothing  store  in  the  vil 
lage,  the  owner  giving  him  credit  without 
scruple.  "  I  know  by  your  face  you'll 
pay  me,"  he  said ;  "  but  even  if  you 
didn't,  it  wouldn't  break  me ;  and  we 
must  all  lend  a  helping  hand  in  a  case 
like  this." 

He  was  two  hours  in  dressing,  com 
pelled  to  rest  every  few  minutes  during 
the  process.  When  nearly  dressed  he 
happened  to  cast  his  eyes  on  a  looking- 
glass  set  on  a  chest  of  drawers.  Startled, 
he  turned  round  to  see  who  had  entered 
his  room.  No  one  there  !  Yet  when 
he  looked  again  in  the  glass  there  still 


it  stood — a  feeble,  wan-faced  old  crea 
ture,  with  hollow,  staring  eyes,  and  hair 
silver  white.  A  second  time  he  turned 
perplexed,  wondering  whether  his  senses 
were  beginning  to  wander  again.  At 
last,  after  a  third  look  in  the  mirror,  it 
flashed  upon  him — that  was  NELSON 
TYLER  ! 

What  we  call  Time  in  this  world  may 
not  exist  in  the  next  under  any  phase 
which  corresponds  to  our  present  per-  , 
ceptions  of  it.  These  perceptions,  even 
here,  are  sometimes  revolutionized. 
That  hour  of  twenty  seconds  spent  by 
Hartland  beneath  the  lake  waters  in 
self-trial  and  condemnation  was  as  truly 
an  hour  to  him  as  if  the  long  hand  of  the 
clock  had  marked  its  sixty  minutes.  And 
so  even  physical  effects  that  are  usually 
the  result  of  years  may  be  produced  in 
days.  That  terrible  week  had  been  ten 
years  in  Tyler's  life.  He  was  ten  years 
nearer  death  at  its  close  than  he  had 
been  at  its  commencement.  His  hair,  but 
slightly  sprinkled  with  gray  on  that  bright 
May-day  morning  when  the  «  Queen  of 
the  Lakes"  swept  gracefully  from  her 
moorings  in  the  harbor  of  Buffalo,  was, 
on  this  seventh  of  May,  colorless  as  the 
snow  when  it  falls  from  heaven.  The 
rush  of  circumstance  had  put  forward 
the  hands  of  life's  dial.  Would  his  own 
child  recognize  him  under  his  advanced 
years  ? 

In  a  buggy  which  the  landlord  loaned 
him  he  ventured  out,  taking  Willie — who 
had  been  thriving  under  the  buxom  land 
lady's  care — with  him,  and  driving  slowly 
to  the  scene  of  disaster.  What  a  sight 
met  his  eyes  !  A  wide  trench,  some 
one  hundred  and  fifty  or  two  hundred 
feet  long,  had  been  dug  along  the  bank, 
and  contained — so  they  told  him — three 
hundred  and  seventy  bodies  that  had 
been  washed  ashore,  or  dragged  up  from 
the  sand-bar  on  which  the  steamer 
stranded  by  friends  and  relatives  in 
search  of  their  dead.  These  bodies  had 
been  enclosed  in  rough  poplar  boxes, 
the  lids  loosely  tacked  on,  so  that  the 
corpse  within  could  be  readily  inspected. 

I  Upon   each    lid   had   been   chalked   the 
name  when   there  was  any  clew  to  it, 

i  but  in  the  great  majority  of  cases  only  a 


196 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


few  words  designating  sex.  probable  age 
and  apparent  nativity  of  the  deceased. 

A  crowd  was  assembled  around  this 
hideous  trench  :  the  greater  number 
mere  spectators,  drawn  thither  by  the 
curiosity  which  any  great  tragedy  arouses, 
but  a  good  many  were  engaged  in  ex 
amining  the  rude  lettering  on  the  boxes, 
and  some  in  the  ghastly  duty  of  inspect 
ing  their  contents,  urged,  perhaps,  by 
hope  of  recognizing,  in  some  decaying 
form,  a  brother,  a  father,  perhaps  a  sis 
ter  or  wife. 

Some  of  these  searchers,  however, 
seemed  to  be  young  lawyers  or  other 
agents,  who  had  accepted  the  revolting 
office — an  office  not  without  danger  also, 
for  Tyler's  perceptions,  sensitive  through 
sickness,  detected  a  faint  odor,  indicating 
that  in  a  portion  of  that  encoffined  mass 
decomposition  had  already  begun. 

Two  men,  who  appeared  to  have  been 
thus  employed,  came  from  the  crowd  and 
stopped  to  take  a  last  look  at  the  scene 
near  Tyler's  buggy. 

"  Catch  me  undertaking  such  a  job 
again  !"  said  the  younger  of  the  two  to 
his  companion.  "If  it  hadn't  been  for 
that  chloride  of  lime,  or  soda,  or  what 
ever  it  is,  I  think  I  should  have  fainted 
before  I  got  through  that  awful  pit.  I 
don't  believe  the  stench  will  be  out  of 
my  nostrils  for  a  week.  And  we  have 
to  give  it  up  at  last." 

"  We  found  one  of  the  two,"  replied 
the  other  ;  «  and  that's  better  luck  than 
most  of  them  had." 

«  I  say,  Jack,"  rejoined  the  first  speak 
er,  "did  you  hear  the  dreadful  stories 
they  were  telling  about  the  plunder  of 
the  dead  bodies  —  watches,  jewelry, 
money  they  suppose  too  ;  and  one  young 
girl  who  had  her  earrings  torn  off." 

"It  may  be  exaggerated,"  replied  the 
other,  "  but  no  doubt  it  is  partly  true.  A 
great  crowd  always  draws  pickpockets  ; 
and  they  probably  concluded  that  the 
dead  would  miss  their  rings  and  watches 
and  pocket-books  less  than  the  living, 
and  would  be  very  sure  not  to  prosecute 
them  for  the  theft." 

«  I  suppose  that  is  their  cold-blood 
ed  way  of  looking  at  it,  but  it's  very 
norrible." 


"  I  came  across  a  more  horrible  thing 
just  before  I  left  home." 

"  Did  you  ?" 

«  I  was  standing  in  our  savings  bank 
last  Saturday  afternoon  when  a  crowd 
of  depositors  came  in  ;  one  widow  among 
them,  over  fifty,  and  four  children  to  feed 
by  taking  in  plain  sewing.  She  had  put 
a  fifty-dollar  note — the  savings,  she  told 
me  afterward,  of  nearly  two  years — into 
her  bank-book,  and  held  that  over  her 
shoulder  in  the  press.  Some  villain 
picked  it  out.  These  wrecker-thieves 
are  honorable  gentlemen  compared  to 
him,  if  they  do  look  Death  in  the  face 
and  go  on  picking  and  stealing  still.  You 
ought  to  have  seen  that  poor  creature's 
agony.  Money  saved,  twenty-five  cents 
at  a  time,  through  two  whole  years,  to 
be  laid  by  against  a  rainy  day,  and  gone 
in  a  single  moment,  no  doubt  to  pamper 
drunken  riot  or  worse  debauchery.  It's 
very  shocking  to  think  of,  the  tearing  rings 
out  of  the  ears  of  a  young  creature  that's 
dead,  but  it's  a  venial  crime  compared 
to  tearing  the  heartstrings  of  a  poor,  old, 
overtasked,  hardworking  mother  that's 
living  and  can  feel  the  torture." 

"  You  always  were  a  queer  creature, 
Jack,  but  I  can't  help  thinking  of  the 
bleeding  ears  for  all  that." 

"Don't  let's  talk  about  it,  Ned.  I 
want  to  get  out  of  this.  Let's  hunt  up 
the  two  men  that  hired  that  hack  along 
with  us,  and  see  if  we  can't  get  off 
to-night." 

Tyler  had  seen  and  heard  enough. 
He  returned  to  the  tavern  a  good  deal 
fatigued,  but  a  quiet  night's  rest  did 
much  for  him.  He  was  up,  though  a 
little  late,  to  breakfast. 

As  he  passed  out  with  Willie  to  go 
to  his  room,  the  two  men  whose  conver 
sation  he  had  listened  to  on  the  lake 
shore  were  paying  their  bills  at  the  office 
counter.  Tyler  stopped  to  look  at  them. 
The  face  of  the  elder  seemed  familiar, 
but  he  tasked  his  memory  in  vain  to 
discover  who  he  was  or  where  he  had 
met  him.  They  passed  up  stairs  to  look 
after  their  baggage,  and  Tyler  noticed  a 
four-horse  carriage  at  the  door.  "  Are 
they  going  in  that  hack  ?"  he  asked  his 
host. 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


197 


"Yes,  to  Cleveland,  where  they  take 
the  railroad.  Why  couldn't  you  go  with 
them  ?" 

"  I  have  no  money  to  pay  you  my 
bill." 

"  Don't  let  that  stop  you,  Mr.  Tyler. 
I'll  not  be  harder  on  you  than  the  tailor 
was.  Send  me  ten  dollars  when  you  get 
home,  if  you  have  it  to  spare." 

"And  the  old  woman  that  nursed 
me?" 

"  I  guess  she  ought  to  have  a  V.  So 
you  can  make  it  fifteen." 

"  I'll  send  you  twenty  the  day  I  get 
home.  Give  the  old  woman  half.  She 
earned  it." 

Just  then  the  two  men  came  down, 
the  younger  first.  "  Mr.  Morris,"  said 
the  landlord,  "couldn't  you  give  this 
man  a  seat  in  your  hack  ?" 

"  Very  sorry,  but  we're  full  already — 
four  of  us,  and  that's  all  it  holds." 

"  Who  wants  a  seat  ?"  said  the  other 
as  he  came  forward — "  anybody  from  the 
wreck  ?" 

"  Yes,  this  old  man  here  :  he  swam 
ashore,  and  then  went  back  into  the 
water  to  try  and  save  a  friend  of  his. 
That  time  he'd  have  been  drowned,  sure 
enough,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Scotch 
Alick.  He's  been  a  week  getting  over 
it,  as  it  was." 

"  Old  gentleman,"  said  he  whom  his 
companion  had  called  Jack,  turning  to 
Tyler,  "  you  shall  have  my  seat,  and 
heartily  welcome  too  :  I'll  get  up  beside 
the  driver." 

Tyler  wrung  his  hand  in  thanks : 
«•  I've  this  little  fellow,  but  he  can  sit  on 
my  knee." 

"  Any  baggage  ?" 

"Out  in  the  lake,  yes,"  smiling;  "but 
we  won't  wait  for  it." 

It  was  just  as  much  as  the  miller 
could  do  to  climb  into  his  seat,  the  land 
lord  helping  him. 

"  Hand  me  up  that  youngster,  land 
lord,"  said  Jack  ;  "  I  know  he  wants  to 
see  the  horses,  and  my  knees  are 
stronger  than  his  grandfather's." 

"That's  not  my  grandfather,"  said 
Willie  as  soon  as  he  was  seated. 

"  Your  father,  is  it  ?  He's  old  to  have 
such  a  son  as  you." 


"  Father  and  mother  are  both  drowned, 
and  Bessy  and  Liz — Jem  and  Harry 
too." 

"Good  Heavens!"  said  kind-hearted 
Jack  ;  "and  who's  that  old  gentleman  ?" 

"  Don't  know.  He's  goin'  to  make  a 
miller  of  me." 

Jack  looked  at  the  child's  sad,  earnest 
eyes  and  kissed  him,  his  own  eyes  moist: 
then  he  turned,  and,  after  scrutinizing 
Tyler's  face,  said  to  Morris :  "  Ned, 
hand  me  up  one  of  those  printed  hand 
bills."  He  looked  it  over  carefully  ; 
then  to  himself:  "No,  it  can't  be;  but 
it's  a  singular  coincidence." 

"  Mr.  Morris,"  said  one  of  the  occu 
pants  of  the  hack,  "  what  sort  of  luck 
had  you  and  Mr.  Alston  ?" 

"  Got  one  body  and  sent  it  home,  but 
couldn't  find  a  trace  of  the  other,  though 
we  must  have  opened  at  least  fifty  of 
those  infernal  boxes.  It  may  have  been 
washed  ashore  some  distance  off." 

"Then  probably  the  coroners  didn't 
have  a  quarrel  over  it." 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Didn't  you  hear  about  that  ?  The 
bodies  came  on  shore  close  to  the  county 
line  ;  and  there  were  two  rival  coroners, 
each  anxious  to  have  the  honor,  or 
rather  the  profit,  of  holding  a  few  hun 
dred  inquests.  Finally,  I  think,  they 
agreed  to  divide  the  spoils." 

"  Well,"  said  Morris,  "  if  a  man's  in 
business  he  must  look  out  for  custom. 
It's  three  dollars  a  body,  and  the  county 
can  afford  to  pay  it.  These  coroners 
don't  make  fortunes  :  it  isn't^  every  day 
they  have  such  a  windfall  as  this.  I 
wish  one  of  them  had  made  his  three 
dollars  off  that  millers  body,  so  we  could 
have  taken  it  home  to  his  daughter.  No 
doubt  it  would  have  been  a  comfort  to 
the  girl.  Are  you  worse,  old  gentle 
man  ?"  turning  to  Tyler,  who  had  sunk 
back  as  if  exhausted,  his  eyes  closed. 

"No,  it's  nothing,"  rousing  himself; 
"but  is  that  gentleman's  name,  beside 
the  driver,  Mr.  Alston  ?" 

"Jack  Alston,  yes  ;  and  a  right  good 
fellow  too,  if  he  has  odd  notions  some 
times.  From  Mount  Sharon  :  do  you 
know  him  ?" 

"  Mr.  Alston,"  said  Tyler  in  a  feeble 


I93 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


voice,  without  replying  to  Morris,  "  will 
you  let  me  see  that  handbill  you  were 
reading  ?" 

It  was  handed  to  him.  The  reading 
of  it  seemed  to  produce  a  strange  im 
pression.  They  saw  him  struggle  for 
composure.  At  last  he  said  quietly  to 
Morris,  "  I  think  it's  just  as  well  the 
coroner  didn't  hold  an  inquest  on  that 
miller  you're  looking  after." 

"  Why  ?  Do  you  know  anything 
about  the  body  ?" 

"Yes." 

«  Then,  in  the  name  of  Goodness,  let 
us  know  where  it  is.  We've  had  such 
a  time  after  it.  Driver !"  raising  his 
voice,  "  stop  :  we  must  go  back  again." 

"  No,  you  needn't :  you've  got  the 
body  here." 

"  What  ?"  said  the  other,  confounded 
— "in  the  boot  under  the  driver,  or 
strapped  on  behind  ?" 

Tyler,  weak  as  he  was,  couldn't  help 
laughing  :  "  The  miller  was  six  feet  and 
over :  it  would  have  been  hard  to  get 
the  box  into  the  boot,  I  think." 

"  For  God's  sake,  stranger,  tell  us 
what  all  this  means,  at  once." 

"It  isn't  every  man  that  has  a  chance 
to  see  his  dead  body  advertised,  and  ten 
dollars  reward  offered  for  it — " 

"  By  the  Lord  Harry !"  broke  in 
Jack,  "if  it  isn't  the  burly  miller  here  in 
the  body  among  us  !  Give  us  your  hand, 
old  fellow.  I  had  some  suspicion  about 
it  when  this  youngster  here  told  me  you 
intended  to  make  a  miller  of  him.  But 
then  the  wjiite  hair !  How  could  they 
make  such  a  mistake  ?" 

"  No  mistake,  Mr.  Alston  ;"  shaking 
his  head  sadly  ;  "  but  /  made  a  mistake 
myself,  yesterday,  when  I  first  got  up 
from  a  sick  bed  and  looked  in  the  glass. 
I  didn't  know  it  was  Nelson  Tyler." 

"  No  wonder  I  didn't  find  it  out,  then. 
Well,  I've  heard  of  such  things  before, 
but  I  never  believed  them.  Do  you 
mean  to  say  that  your  hair  was  only 
<  sprinkled  with  gray,'  as  the  handbill 
says,  one  week  ago  ?" 

"The  day  we  left  Buffalo,  yes — if 
that's  only  a  week  since.  It  seems  to 
me  like  six  months." 

«  Mr.  Tyler,"  said  Alston,  "  what  was 


it  that  the  landlord  said  about  your  go 
ing  back  into  the  water,  after  you  had 
saved  yourself,  to  help  a  friend  ?  Who 
was  it  you  tried  to  save  ?" 

"  Thomas  Hartland  of  Chiskauga  ;  but 
I  didn't  make  it  out.  I  contrived  to  get 
the  body  along  till  the  water  was  about 
two  feet  deep,  and  then  fell  down  sense 
less  myself.  You  would  have  got  my 
body,  slick  enough,  along  with  Mr.  Hart- 
land's,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  a  stout 
Scotchman  and  his  son  who  dragged  me 
out." 

"  You're  a  noble  fellow,  Nelson  Ty 
ler,"  said  Alston,  warmly  :  "  first,  to  risk 
your  life,  and  all  but  lose  it,  for  a  friend  ; 
and  then  to  adopt  an  orphan  that  hadn't 
a  soul  left  to  take  care  of  him.  But  how 
did  you  expect  to  pay  your  way  and  his 
back  to  Chiskauga  ?" 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  didn't  see 
my  path  very  clearly  ;  but  in  our  coun 
try  you  can  always  find  somebody  to  help 
in  a  case  like  this.  I  felt  sure  the  rail 
road  people  would  put  us  through  free." 

"  That  reminds  me,"  said  Mr.  Morris, 
taking  out  his  pocket-pook  and  selecting 
from  it  two  half-eagles,  "  that  I  owe  this 
gentleman  a  debt."  He  handed  the 
money  to  Tyler,  adding  with  the  utmost 
gravity,  "The  reward  for  finding  that 
body,  Mr.  Tyler,  that  was  too  long  to 
get  into  the  boot,  you  know." 

They  had  a  good  laugh  over  this,  and 
quite  a  merry  time,  all  things  considered, 
till  they  reached  Cleveland,  whence,  the 
same  afternoon,  they  proceeded  by  rail 
on  their  return  to  Chiskauga. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

ONE  OF  NATURE'S  WONDERS. 
WHILE  Tyler  lay  in  lethargic  sleep 
and  penniless — off  the  line  of  telegraphic 
communication,  too  —  at  that  country 
tavern,  he  had  neither  spirit  nor  means 
to  send  speedy  news  of  his  condition  to 
his  daughter.  But  ere  he  left  Cleveland 
he  telegraphed  to  a  friend  at  the  River- 
dale  railroad  station  nearest  to  Chis 
kauga,  asking  him  to  ride  over  and  in 
form  Ellen  that  her  father  was  on  his 
way  home. 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


199 


The  tidings  came  like  a  message  from 
heaven  to  the  desolate  girl.  The  terri 
ble  suspense — worse  than  the  worst  cer 
tainty—which  she  had  been  enduring  for 
the  last  five  days  had  worn  on  mind  and 
body  till  she  seemed  more  fit  to  occupy 
a  sick  bed  than  to  go  about  as  she  still 
did,  wearied  and  wan,  attending  mechan 
ically  to  her  daily  duties. 

The  poor  child  had  her  own  personal 
griefs  and  anxieties  in  addition  to  those 
which  regarded  her  father's  fate.  She 
had  fallen,  alas  !  into  pitiless  hands. 

The  ancients  were  wont  to  picture  the 
Harpies  as  rapacious  birds  with  human 
heads,  who  snatched  from  some  hungry 
man  the  untasted  meal,  destroying  or 
befouling  what  was  intended  for  nourish 
ment  and  comfort.  More  cruel  are  the 
Harpies  of  humankind— filching  or  de 
filing  the  holier  food  of  the  mind  and 
heart,  decrying  good  name,  bedaubing 
'fair  fame  and  murdering  reputation. 
Venial  in  the  comparison,  and  of  motive 
less  shameful,  is  even  the  base  offence 
of  the  robber-incendiary.  He  may  hope 
to  clutch  from  the  burning  edifice  valu 
able  spoil,  and  that  edifice  may,  ere  long, 
be  rebuilt  stronger,  fairer,  more  stately 
than  before  ;  but  the  backbiter  has  not 
even  the  poor  excuse  of  plunder,  and  the 
ruins  of  a  blasted  reputation  may  be 
eternal  —  beyond  reach  of  restoration 
even  by  the  slanderer  himself,  should 
late  repentance  seek  to  repair  the  deso 
lation  he  had  wrought. 

But  Amos  Cranstoun  and  Catherine 
Wolfgang  thought  of  none  of  these 
things.  The  one  stung  by  jealousy,  the 
other  by  envy,  they  sought  to  gratify 
these  evil  passions,  reckless  on  whose 
head  their  defamations  fell.  Neither 
specially  disliked  Ellen  Tyler,  yet,  as 
events  turned,  she  was  their  chief  vic 
tim.  They  felt  that  Mowbray  and  Celia 
could  be  most  effectually  reached  and 
punished  by  imputations  on  the  chas 
tity  of  the  miller's  innocent  and  simple- 
hearted  child. 

Day  by  day  she  was  made  to  feel, 
sometimes  by  intangible  trifles,  some 
times  by  ruder  demonstrations,  the 
spreading  of  the  subtle  influence.  On 
May-day  there  was  a  pic-nic,  numerously 


attended,  on  Grangula's  Mount,  and  to 
this  the  invitation  had  been  of  a  general 
character.  Ellen  went.  By  Celia,  Leo- 
line  and  others  she  was  treated  with 
their  wonted  kindness,  but  on  the  part 
of  several  of  her  usual  companions  she 
met  averted  looks,  a  few  rudely  and 
pointedly  avoiding  her.  On  one  occa 
sion,  when  she  had  seated  herself  on  a 
bench  on  which  six  or  eight  young  girls 
of  her  acquaintance  had  already  taken 
seats,  they  rose  in  a  body  and  left  it. 

She  returned  home  heart-broken  ;  and 
when,  two  days  later,  there  was  super- 
added  a  week  of  torturing  suspense  in 
regard  to  her  father's  fate,  the  unhappy 
girl,  looking  forward  to  desertion  by  all 
earthly  aid  and  hope,  was,  for  the  time, 
crushed  beneath  her  load  of  sorrow. 

One  star — was  it  of  bane  or  of  bless 
ing  ? — shone  through  the  darkness  that 
was  enshrouding  her.  She  met  Mow- 
bray  twice  during  that  terrible  week. 
He  spoke  to  her  gently,  kindly,  sooth 
ingly—spoke,  at  last,  of  marriage.  Ellen 
burst  into  tears,  faltering  out  Celia's 
name. 

"  Do  not  let  us  speak  of  her,"  said 
Mowbray,  coloring.  "She  has —  Every 
thing  is  over  between  us  for  ever — for 
ever,  dear  Ellen!  It  was  her  doing: 
perhaps  she  likes  somebody  else  better : 
at  all  events,  I  was  glad  to  be  honorably 
released.  Don't  you  know  why?  I 
have  felt  lately— you  must  have  felt  it 
too — that  for  months  I  have  loved  you 
far  better  than  her— far  better  than  any 
one  else  in  all  this  world.  It  would 
have  been  wrong  for  me  to  marry  her, 
loving  you  best.  Now  I  am  free,  and 
you  will  be  my  little  wife — will  you  not, 
dear,  dear  Ellen  ?" 

It  was  not  in  a  nature  like  Ellen's  to 
make  any  answer  but  one  to  this.  Child 
like,  faithful-hearted,  inexperienced,  ten 
der,  she  saw  in  Evelyn  Mowbray  more 
than  her  love  :  he  was  her  hero  also,  her 
ideal  of  all  goodness,  nobility,  generosity. 
To  another  it  might  have  occurred  that 
Mowbray's  conduct  to  Celia  showed  in 
constancy,  and  laid  him  open  to  the 
charge  of  mercenary  motive.  Not  one 
light  cloud  of  suspicion  rested  on  the 
heaven  of  her  simple  faith.  Celia's  po- 


200 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


sition,  if  she  had  lost  much  money, 
seemed  to  Ellen  still  far  above  her  own, 
and  it  was  Celia's  own  doing.  Didn't 
Mr.  Movvbray  say  so  ? 

But  the  glamour  which  indued  the 
image  of  clay  with  the  vestments  of  a 
god  owed  its  power  of  charming  to 
something  more.  Mowbray  had  taken 
a  fancy  to  this  pretty,  warm-hearted, 
bright-eyed  girl.  Celia  had  deeply 
wounded  his  vanity,  and  Ellen's  look  of 
love  mingled  with  reverence  was  balm 
to  the  wound.  He  had  not  lied  to  her 
when  he  said  that  he  preferred  her  to 
her  rival  and  to  every  one  else  :  he  cer 
tainly  did— just  then.  Truth  lent  force 
to  his  words  and  warmth  to  his  tones. 
Ellen  knew  that  she  was  loved — that  she 
was  preferred  to  a  young  lady,  beautiful, 
refined,  accomplished.  Her  vanity,  like 
his,  was  flattered,  and  became  the  ally 
of  her  love. 

Could  she  say  aught  but  yes  when  he 
offered  her  the  first  place  in  his  heart, 
and  a  shelter  in  his  arms  from  the  revil- 
ings  of  a  merciless  world  ? 

One  only  condition  she  attached  to 
her  consent — that  her  father,  when  he 
returned  (not  z/"he  returned)  should  say 
yes  also. 

He  did  return  when  hope  was  almost 
gone  ;  but  alas  !  alas  !  how  worn,  how  pale, 
how  changed  !  Ellen's  tearful  joy  when 
the  old  man  took  her  once  more  in  his 
arms  was  most  touching  to  see.  She 
supported  him  into  the  house,  set  him  in 
the  wonted  easy-chair  ;  then  sank  at  his 
feet,  burying  her  face  in  her  hands  and 
laughing  and  crying  alternately,  without 
power  of  control. 

When  her  first  wild  emotions  had 
somewhat  subsided,  she  stood,  with 
swimming  eyes  and  an  aching  heart, 
gazing — oh  so  piteously  ! — at  that  wast 
ed  form.  «  Father,  father  !"  she  cried, 
«  how  terrible  it  must  have  been  !  Poor 
white  hair !"  putting  it  back  from  his 
forehead  and  kissing  him  fervently  again 
and  again.  Then  she  knelt  down,  laid 
her  clasped  hands  on  his  knees,  and 
looked  up  in  his  face  :  "  You  must  rest 
now,  father  dear,  and  I  must  nurse  you. 
Hiram  can  mind  the  mill :  he's  been 
quite  attentive  since  you  went  away. 


You  must  be  very  quiet :  you  mustn't 
be  anxious,  nor  trouble  yourself  about 
anything  except  getting  well."  Then 
sadly,  in  a  low  tone  :  "  I've  been  a  trou 
ble  to  you,  father  :  I've  done  what  I 
ought  not  to  have  done  :  you've  been 
anxious  and  sorry  about  me.  Dear, 
kind  father,  you  mustn't  be  anxious,  you 
mustn't  ever  be  sorry  about  me,  any 
more.  They  may  say  what  they  please 
and  promise  what  they  please  :  I'll  stay 
with  you  and  take  care  of  you,  as  mother 
would  have  done  if  she  hadn't  gone  to 
heaven.  I'll  never  leave  you — never, 
father  dear — as  long  as  you  need  me — 
as  long  as  you  want  me  to  stay."  Then 
she  took  the  white,  thin  hands  in  both 
hers,  stroked  them  and  laid  her  face  on 
them. 

The  old  man,  wholly  overcome,  looked 
at  his  daughter  with  dim  eyes,  thinking, 
the  while,  of  that  pathetic  old  story  that 
tells  us  of  the  Hebrew  widow  and  the 
Moabitess,  her  daughter-in-law.  The 
words  seemed  to  sound  in  his  ears : 
"  Whither  thou  goest,  I  will  go ;  and 
where  thou  lodgest,  I  will  lodge.  The 
Lord  do  so  to  me,  and  more  also,  if 
aught  but  death  part  me  and  thee."  He 
gently  drew  his  hands  from  hers,  laid 
them  on  her  bowed  head  and  said : 
"You  are  your  mother's  own  child, 
Nell  —  the  dearest  blessing  God  has 
given  me.  May  He  bless  you  as  I  do, 
and  lead  and  protect  you  when  I  am 
gone  !" 

The  next  day,  when  a  quiet  night's 
rest  had  a  little  recruited  the  miller's 
strength,  and  when  both  were  calmer,  he 
related  to  the  wondering  and  excited 
girl  the  tragical  scenes  through  which 
he  had  passed  ;  omitting,  however,  that 
vision  of  home  which  appeared  to  him 
while  he  lay  under  water  insensible. 
As  he  concluded  his  narrative,  Hiram 
Goddart  came  in  to  take  his  orders  for 
the  day.  When  these  were  given  and 
the  young  man  had  departed,  Tyler  said 
to  Ellen  :  «  Has  Hiram  heard  from  his 
uncle  Samuel  since  I  left  ?" 

"Yes" — a  little  embarrassed:  "did 
he  tell  you  he  expected  a  letter  ?" 

"No.     Any  news  from  the  old  man?" 

"  The  letter  came  on  May-day,  I  be- 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


201 


lieve  ;  at  least  Hiram  told  me  of  it  next 
morning.  He  did  not  show  it  to  me, 
but  I  think  it  must  have  been  in  reply 
to  something  he  had  written  about  a 
partnership  with  you  in  the  mill ;  for  he 
said  the  uncle  offered  him  one  or  two 
thousand  dollars  to  set  him  up  in  the 
world." 

The  miller  started,  shuddered,  turned 
pale. 

"  Poor  father  !"  said  Ellen  ;  "  how 
you  must  have  suffered !  You  have 
these  pains  still  ?" 

«  Not  much,  my  child  :  it  has  passed. 
Did  Hiram  say  anything  about  a  part 
nership  ?" 

"  I  think  he  did.  Oh  yes — now  I  re 
member  :  he  said  you  might  perhaps 
want  money  to  help  pay  for  that  new 
machinery.  Was  that  all  lost,  father  ?" 

"Yes,  Nell:  nothing  but  the  old  man's 
come  back  to  you  ;  and  he's  good  for 
nothing  but  to  give  trouble  now." 

Ellen  put  her  hand  on  his  mouth  :  "  I 
know  you  love  me,  father  dear,"  the 
tears  rising  to  her  eyes,  "and  that  you 
don't  want  me  to  cry.  Then  you 
mustn't  say  such  cruel  things  as  that." 

"  Well,  I  won't.  I  used  to  tend  you 
when  you  was  little  and  your  mother 
ailin',  and  I  never  thought  it  a  trouble. 
So  you  shall  fetch  me  a  pitcher  of  water, 
dear  Nellie,  fresh  from  the  well." 

Ellen  brought  it,  and  when  she  had 
poured  out  a  glass,  her  father  asked, 
"What's  come  of  that  blue  and  white 
pitcher  ?" 

"Oh,  father,  I'm  so  sorry!" 

"It's  broken  ?" 

"Yes.  It  was  the  very  same  morn 
ing  Hiram  spoke  to  me  about  his  uncle's 
letter."  Then,  looking  at  her  father : 
"  You  are  suffering  still  from  those  aches 
you  told  me  of.  I  see  it  in  your  face." 

"Just  for  a  moment,  Nell:  never 
mind  it.  So  you  and  he  were  at  the 
well  together,  were  you  ?" 

Ellen  blushed  :  "  Why,  how  did  you 
know  that,  father  ?" 

"  It  wasn't  difficult  to  guess.  You 
generally  fetch  a  pitcher  of  water  for 
breakfast ;  and  that's  about  the  time 
Hiram  mostly  comes  to  wash  by  the 
well." 


"  Yes,  he  was  wiping  his  face  and 
hands  when  he  told  me  about  the  letter." 

"You  see.  That  must  have  been 
just  about  the  time  I  got  on  shore.  I 
wonder  if  you  had  been  dreaming  about 
steamboat  accidents." 

"  No,  but  I  had  had  bad  dreams  about 
you,  and  kept  thinking  of  the  seven  peo 
ple  that  were  killed  on  the  railroad  when 
the  cars  ran  off  the  track." 

"  And  maybe  Hiram  kept  thinking 
that  if  anything  did  happen  you'd  be 
very  lonely — " 

"  He  had  no  business  to  tell  you  all 
that.  I  don't  thank  him  for  it  !"  a  little 
pettishly. 

"  Don't  blame  the  lad  for  nothing, 
Nell.  He  never  said  the  first  word 
about  it,  good  or  bad.  But  my  Scotch 
aunt  Jessie  used  to  sing  me  a  song  that 
Burns  or  somebody  wrote  :  it  began — 

'  Wilt  thou  be  my  dearie? 

When  sorrow  wrings  thy  gentle  heart, 
Wilt  thou  let  me  cheer  thee  ?' 

And  I  remember  that  was  the  way  I  felt 
about  your  mother  when  I  was  courtin' 
her,  one  time  when  her  father  was  ill. 
I  think  Hiram  must  have  been  saying 
something  about  some  other  partner 
ship  besides  the  millin'  business  that 
morning  ?" 

Again  that  telltale  blush  :  "  Father, 
you  must  be  a  witch.  How  could  you 
guess  all  that  ?" 

"  You  think  I  never  heard  that,  when 
young  people  meet  by  the  well,  they  do, 
now  and  then,  talk  of  such  things  ?  How 
do  you  know  I  never  did  it  myself?" 

"  But  then  nothing  can  ever  come  of 
it.  Hiram's  as  good  as  he  can  be  :  you 
never  had  a  more  faithful  hand  ;  only  I 
couldn't  love  him.  I  told  him  it  couldn't 
be.  And  you  don't  want  me  to  marry 
him,  do  you  ?" 

"  You  love  your  old  father,  Nell,  and 
you're  bent  on  taking  care  of  him.  D'ye 
think  he  would  ever  ask  you  to  marry 
anybody  you  couldn't  love  ?" 

Tyler  had  many  kisses  from  his  daugh 
ter  that  morning,  but  none  more  fervent 
than  the  one  she  gave  him  as  he  said 
that.  Yet  she  could  not  make  up  her 
mind  to  tell  him,  just  then,  that  Mow- 
bray  had  asked  her  to  be  his  wife.  «  By 


202 


BETOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


and  by,"  she  thought,  « when  he  is 
stronger." 

"  Nelly,"  said  Tyler,  "  you've  your 
housework  to  do  and  that  orphan  Willie 
to  look  to  ;  and  I'm  a'most  as  much 
worn  out  tellin'  you  that  long  story  as 
if  I'd  gone  through  it  all  again.  Leave 
me  to  rest,  child:  maybe  I'll  get  a  nap." 

Yet  he  was  not  thinking  of  napping. 
When  Ellen  left  him  his  mind  was  in  a 
tumult.  As  he  recalled  and  arranged 
the  wonders  .that  had  just  come  to  light, 
he  sank  into  a  long,  solemn  reverie. 

He  had  looked  upon  it  as  a  dream.  No 
thing  more  natural,  considering  whither 
his  thoughts  had  strayed  off,  even  while 
he  was  dragging  Hartland's  body  through 
the  water,  feeling  step  by  step  more  like 
dying  himself  than  saving  another.  Yet 
he  had  never,  in  his  life,  dreamed  any 
thing  so  vividly.  No  occurrence  in  the 
actual  world  had  ever  seemed  to  him 
more  real.  The  Scotchman's  voice  and 
the  cold  wet  sand  appeared  to  him,  at 
the  first  moment,  more  like  a  vision  than 
that  from  which  they  recalled  him.  And 
thus — actuated,  however,  by  curiosity 
rather  than  by  any  belief  that  the  scene 
had  been  truly  enacted  at  the  well-side — 
he  had  cautiously  questioned  Ellen. 

The  result  overcame  him  with  wonder 
and  with  fear.  The  coincidences  were 
too  many  and  too  exact  to  be  casual. 
First,  there  was  the  correspondence  as 
to  time  —  the  morning  after  May-day, 
probably  at  the  same  hour,  for  the  miller 
was  wont  to  breakfast  about  sunrise  ; 
then  the  various  details  of  the  conversa 
tion — Hiram  telling  the  girl  of  the  letter 
from  Uncle  Samuel,  and  the  sum  named 
in  it,  "  one  or  two  thousand  dollars  ;" 
the  proposal  about  a  partnership,  never 
broached  by  the  lad  before  ;  then — still 
more  unlike  the  fortuitous  —  Hiram's 
suggestion  that  the  money  might  help  to 
pay  for  the  new  machinery  ;  then  his 
suit  to  Ellen  and  his  allusion  to  her 
being  left  alone  ;  finally  a  pitcher  broken 
at  that  very  time,  and  that  pitcher  the 
same  he  had  seen  in  the  trance — his 
mother's  bequest.  Common  sense  told 
him  this  could  not  all  be  chance.  What 
was  it,  then  ? 

The  man  felt  awestricken,  as  in  the 


presence  of  a  Superior  Power.  The 
next  world  came  near  to  his  senses,  as 
never  before,  though  that  might  have 
been  due,  in  part,  to  his  late  narrow 
escape  from  death.  New  and  strange 
thoughts  crowded  upon  him.  He  had 
never  intended  to  doubt  that  the  soul 
had  a  separate  existence  and  that  it  sur 
vived  the  body :  he  would  have  been 
shocked  if  any  one  had  suspected  that 
he  lacked  belief  in  that  article  of  the 
Christian  creed.  Yet  he  had  received 
the  doctrine,  as  the  common  mind  re 
ceives  that  and  a  hundred  more,  pas 
sively — with  sluggish  acquiescence  only. 
No  living  conviction  of  its  truth  had 
come  home  to  him.  If  he  had  been 
hard  pressed  as  to  his  reasons  for  faith 
in  that  tenet,  he  might  have  been  very 
much  puzzled  to  find  them. 

Very  much  puzzled  ten  days  before,  but 
not  after  that  morning  on  the  lake  shore. 
For  then  he  had  seen,  he  had  heard — if 
perceptions  indicate  sight  and  hearing — • 
what  till  then  it  had  not  entered  into  his 
heart  to  conceive.  While  his  body  lay 
insensible  under  the  waters — soon  to  re 
turn,  it  seemed,  to  the  earth  as  it  was— 
his  spirit,  love-called,*  had  hied  away, 
it  would  appear,  leaving  its  earth-clog 
behind,  yet  connected  with  it  perchance 
by  some  invisible,  attenuated  chord, 
which  still  permitted  return  to  its  home 
of  clay,  so  long  as  the  fine,  spiritual 
catenation  was  not  finally  severed.  The 
soul  had  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye, 
overswept  one  or  two  hundred  miles  of 
space  to  visit  home  and  child,  and  take 
note  of  the  cherished  one's  well-being. 

Such — not  in  its  detail,  but  in  its 
general  outline — was  the  theory  upon 
which  Tyler,  after  an  hour  of  profound 
meditation,  settled  down.  He  accepted 
the  strange  phenomenon  it  had  been  his 
lot  to  witness  as  establishing  the  soul's 
separate  and  independent  action,  and 
affording  proof  past  all  denial  of  its  im 
mortality.  But  an  untutored  mind,  sud 
denly  brought  into  contact  with  the  new 
and  the  wonderful,  is  apt  to  run  to  ex 
treme  ;  and  thus  the  miller,  alarmed  into 
superstition,  interpreted  his  vision  not 

*  "  Si  forte  ful'affettuoso  grido." 

DANTE,  In/erno,  canto  5. 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


203 


only  as  evidence  of  another  world,  but 
as  an  omen  foreshadowing  his  own  ap 
proaching  entrance  into  it.  «  Many  ex 
ternal  circumstances,"  says  an  able 
naturalist,*  "appear  tp  be  received  in 
almost  all  countries  as  ominous." 

But  when  an  omen  is  taken  to  indi 
cate  death,  the  tendency  of  the  belief 
itself  often  is  to  work  out  its  own  fulfill 
ment.  Whether  the  miller's  death  was 
hastened  by  his  presentiment,  or  whether 
his  mind  was  disabused  by  communica 
tion  with  those  who  held  more  enlight 
ened  opinions,  will  app'ear  in  the  future 
chapters  of  this  story. 

In  the  mean  time  his  love  for  Ellen 
caused  him  scrupulously  to  conceal  from 
her  what  agitated  his  own  mind.  But, 
like  Mary  at  the  Master's  feet,  he  laid 
up  these  things  in  his  heart. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 
UNDER    THE     DEPTHS. 

DR.  MEYRAC  sat  by  Mrs.  Hartland's 
sick  bed  counting  her  pulse,  one  rainy 
evening  several  weeks  after  the  ship 
wreck.  Celia  had  gone  down  to  see  to 
the  preparation  of  a  nourishing  s.oup. 
The  voice  of  the  patient,  as  she  address 
ed  her  physician,  was  faint  and  low  : 

"You  will  tell  me  the  truth,  doctor. 
What  are  the  chances  that  I  shall  live  ?" 

He  did  not  immediately  reply  ;  and 
when  he  did  the  question  he  asked 
seemed  irrelevant : 

"  Is  it  that  madame  has  great  anxiety 
about  the  affairs  ?  I  heard  say  that  Mr. 
Hartland  lose  by  one  railroad." 

"  You  suppose  I  wish  to  make  a  will  ? 
No  ;  I  am  not  thinking  about  property  : 
Ethan  attends  to  that ;  but  I  wish  you 
to  tell  me—" 

"  I  am  very  pleased.  Now  I  will  an 
swer  madame's  question.  According  the 
symptoms,  you  ought  to  recover ;  but  I 
see  you  sink,  sink,  all  the  days.  There 
is  some  wrong.  I  can  cure  de  body, 
but  I  have  no  medicine  for  cure  de  mind. 
Madame's  mind  is  not  at  ease." 

The   agitation   that  caused   a  sudden 

*  Brande,  who  succeeded  Sir  Humphrey  Davy  as 
professor  in  the  Royal  Institution. 


flush  over  Alice's  pale,  thin  face  attested 
the  sagacity  of  the  observation. 

"  I  pray  madame  not  to  imagine  I 
vould  inquire  :  it  is  not  at  all  my  affair ; 
but  I  vould  offer  one  advice." 

"  Speak  to  me  frankly,  doctor  :  I  ask 
it  as  a  favor." 

«  You  are  too  good.  Veil  den.  Some- 
ting  oppress  you.  It  weighs  on  your 
mind  day  and  night.  You  rest  not :  you 
sleep  not.  But  I  cannot  cure  nobody 
visout  sleep.  You  must  change  dat." 

"  How  can  I  change  it  ?" 

"  See  !  If  you  shut  it  up,  it  vill  op 
press  you  more  and  more  :  maybe  it  vill 
be  too  strong  for  my  tisanes,  and  you 
will  go  to  die.  The  body  must  be  help, 
and  dere  is  a  vay  to  help  it.  You  are 
not  one  Catholique,  or  I  vould  tell  you 
send  for  your  confessor ;  but  it  is  just 
as  good.  Find  some  sage  friend  dat 
you  love,  and  say  it  all.  It  vill  be  much 
relief:  vat  you  call  disburden.  Ven  one 
is  ill,  it  must  never  too  much  load  down 
eeder  de  stomach  or  de  mind." 

Celia  entered,  and  soon  after  the  doc 
tor  took  his  leave,  she  accompanying 
him  to  the  door.  «  Mademoiselle  Celie," 
he  said,  in  French,  "  try  to  amuse  our 
good  friend.  Read  to  her,  sing  to  her. 
Don't  let  her  feed  on  her  own  fancies  : 
they  are  not  wholesome.  Too  much 
care  will  kill  a  cat." 

In  the  course  of  the  evening,  Celia, 
mindful  of  the  doctor's  injunction,  pro 
posed  reading  something.  «  What  shall 
it  be?"  she  asked. 

"  Have  you  not  been  translating  re 
cently  portions  of  Madame  Roland's  au 
tobiography  ?" 

«  Yes." 

"  I  once  dipped  into  it,  and  I  think  it 
would  have  interested  me  intensely,  but 
you  know  how  imperfectly4. 1  understand 
French." 

When  Celia  fetched  her  manuscript 
and  began  to  read,  she  was  amazed  at 
the  emotion  exhibited  by  her  auditor  at 
certain  passages — this  among  them  : 

"  Roland  was  of  a  dominating  charac 
ter,  and  twenty  years  older  than  I.  One 
of  these  two  superiorities  might  have 
been  well  enough  :  both  together  were 
too  much." 


204 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


And  again  :  "It  was  Roland's  desire, 
at  the  commencement  of  our  marriage, 
that  I  should  see  as  little  as  possible  of 
my  intimate  female  friends.  I  conform 
ed  to  his  wishes,  and  did  not  renew  my 
intimacy  with  them  till  he  had  acquired 
sufficient  confidence  in  me  to  be  no 
longer  jealous  of  their  love.  That  was 
a  mistake.  Marriage  is  grave  and 
austere — " 

Celia  started  :  that  sigh  from  the  sick 
bed  seemed  to  come  from  the  very  depths 
of  the  heart ;  but  she  proceeded  : 

«  Marriage  is  grave  and  austere  ;  and 
if  a  woman  with  strong  affections  is  de 
prived  of  the  solace  of  friendship  for 
those  of  her  own  sex,  a  necessary  ali 
ment  is  cut  short  and  she  is  exposed 
thereby.  How  numerous  the  corollaries 
from  that  truth  !" 

The  invalid  clasped  her  hands,  press 
ing  them  tightly  over  her  heart,  but  she 
said  nothing;  and  Celia  went  on  reading: 

"If  we  lived  in  solitude,  I  had  many 
weary  hours  of  sadness  and  suffering. 
If  we  went  into  society,  I  attracted  the 
affection  of  persons,  some  of  whom,  I 
perceived,  might  have  interested  me  too 
much.  So  I  devoted  myself  wholly  to 
work  with  my  husband  ;  but  that,  too, 
had  its  evils." 

"  Dear  Madame  Roland !"  was  all 
the  comment  Alice  made.  Celia,  fear 
ing  over-excitement  in  her  aunt's  feeble 
state,  said  : 

« I  translated  only  passages  that  struck 
me  here  and  there.  Here  is  one  other: 
'In  default  of  happiness,  one  can  often 
obtain  peace,  and  that  replaces  it.' " 

Celia  laid  her  manuscript  aside  as 
Ethan  entered.  He  noticed,  with  appre 
hension,  the  hectic  flush  on  his  mother's 
cheeks.  Fever  was  rising,  but  she  urged 
her  son  and  niece  to  retire.  "  You  have 
both  your  day's  work  to  do  to-morrow," 
she  said,  "  and  need  rest :  Nancy  can 
stay  with  me." 

"  Housework  is  as  hard  as  keeping 
school,"  said  Celia.  "  Let  me  stay  with 
you  to-night,  mother — please  !" 

Mrs.  Hartland  had  two  hours'  troubled 
sleep  in  the  early  part  of  the  night — 
more  than  she  had  been  able  to  obtain 
for  several  days  and  nights  past.  As 


soon  as  she  stirred,  Celia  sprang  from 
the  lounge  where  she  had  dropped  into 
a  light  nap,  and  was  by  her  side.  The 
cheeks  betrayed  high  fever. 

"  Does  it  still  rain  ?"  Alice  asked. 

Celia  threw  back  the  shutters,  and 
moonlight  from  a  cloudless  sky  filled  the 
room.  "  It  is  a  brilliant  night,"  she 
said. 

«  That  storm  oppressed  me.  Put  out 
the  lamp,  dear  child.  I  want  the  moon 
light." 

Celia  sat  down  beside  the  bed.  Her 
aunt  tossed  about,  occasionally  moaning. 
The  forehead  was  burning  hot,  and  the 
girl  began  to  fear  delirium.  But  after  a 
time  Alice  took  her  niece's  hand  and 
seemed  to  be  thinking  of  her,  for  she 
pressed  it  several  times,  shuddering  a 
little  now  and  then.  When  half  an  hour 
elapsed,  she  startled  her  niece  by  saying, 

"  Dr.  Meyrac  thinks  I  shall  die,  but  I 
must  tell  you  something  before  I  go.  I 
knew  how  I  had  sinned,  but,  Celia,  Celia, 
I  never  thought  I  should  do  wrong  to 
you." 

«  Wrong  to  me,  mother  ?" 

"  I  did  not  see  that  I  was  doing  wrong. 
It's  all  clear  now.  Surely  in  the  next 
world  all  will  be  clear." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you  have  loved 
me  and  indulged  me  too  much.  What 
else  have  you  ever  done  ?" 

"  I  want  to  tell  you  about  the  days 
when  your  dear  mother  and  I  went  to 
school  together.  We  lived  in  Arch 
street,  next  door  to  a  rich  merchant ; 
and  his  eldest  son —  Ah,  Celia,  what  a 
noble,  generous,  handsome  boy  he  was  ! 
He  was  just  your  mother's  age — three 
years  older  than  I.  I  don't  remember 
when  I  first  knew  him,  but  he  went  to 
school  with  us  more  than  three  years  ; 
and  never  did  brother  treat  sister  more 
gently,  more  kindly,  than  he  treated  me. 
His  name  was  Frank." 

«  Is  he  alive  still,  auntie  ?" 

"  I  think  I  must  have  been  a  preco 
cious  child  :  I  know  I  was  a  foolish  one. 
It  wasn't  love  I  felt  for  Frank:  it  was 
worship.  At  school  I  contrived  always 
to  sit  so  that  I  could  see  him,  yet  I 
scarcely  ever  dared  to  look.  If  he  was 
in  the  same  room  with  me  anywhere,  it 


BEYOND    THE   BREAKERS. 


205 


was  happiness  enough  for  me.  I  seem 
ed  to  feel  it  if  at  any  time  he  was  going 
to  pass  our  window,  and  I  always  looked 
up  just  in  time.  But  if  anybody  had 
guessed  all  this,  I  think  I  should  have 
died.  One  day  I  was  terribly  frightened. 
We  had  got  together  with  a  number  of 
children,  and  one  of  them  proposed  that 
all  the  boys'  names  should  be  written 
on  scraps  of  paper,  folded  up  and  put 
into  a  hat.  Each  girl  was  to  draw  one. 
We  thought  it  was  rather  wicked,  but 
when  it  came  to  the  point  none  of  us 
refused  to  try  our  chance.  I  drew  two — 
one  accidentally  folded  within  the  other. 
The  first  I  glanced  at  was  the  name  I 
had  hidden  in  my  heart :  I  crushed  it, 
unobserved,  in  my  hand,  and  showed 
them  the  other,  which  contained  the 
name  of  a  rude  boy  whom  I  could  never 
abide.  I  know  I  should  have  fainted 
on  the  spot  if  I  had  been  obliged  to 
show  Frank's  name.  Yet  I  could  not 
make  up  my  mind  to  destroy  the  scrap 
it  was  written  on.  I  had  a  small  bead- 
purse,  lined.  I  ripped  open  the  lining, 
slid  the  precious  memento  inside  and 
carefully  sewed  it  up  again." 

«  Did  he  die,  mother  dear  ?" 

"  He  went  to  a  higher  school — after 
ward  to  college.  I  didn't  see  him  for 
sixteen  years  :  then  I  was  a  wife  and  he 
a  widower.  Oh  you  mustn't  despise 
me,  Celia.  I  was  a  wife,  and  I  am  a 
widow  now,  yet  I  have  that  little  bead- 
purse  still." 

For  some  time  she  was  unable  to  pro 
ceed,  covering  her  face  with  her  hands, 
her  frame  snaking  with  sobs.  Celia 
sought  to  soothe  her,  kissed  her  tender 
ly,  and  could  not  restrain  her  own  tears. 
With  a  strong  effort,  Alice  at  last  mas 
tered  her  emotion  so  as  to  proceed.  But 
she  evidently  spoke  under  high  feverish 
excitement,  and  as  if  she  felt  she  must 
go  through  with  it : 

"  Maybe  I  had  some  excuse  for  mar 
rying.  He  had  married  some  years  be 
fore.  I  knew  it  would  be  an  awful  thing 
to  go  on  loving  a  married  man.  And, 
besides,  it  was  not  a  man  I  had  loved — 
only  a  boy  ;  and  I  thought  it  would  be 
so  different  when  I  saw  him  again. 
Then  Mr.  Hartland  was  such  a  moral, 


upright  person.  Everybody  respected 
him,  and  so  did  I.  I  never  chose  my 
seat  in  church  so  that  I  could  see  him, 
to  be  sure  ;  nor  ever  particularly  noticed 
whether  he  was  in  the  room  or  not ;  and 
I  never  knew  or  cared  when  he  passed 
our  window.  But  I  had  got  it  into  my 
head  that  if  a  woman  married  a  good 
man,  she  wouldn't  be  able  to  help  loving 
him  afterward.  Dear  child,  whatever 
you  do,  never  marry  a  man  you  don't 
care  for,  no  matter  how  good  he  is,  in 
hopes  that  you  may  love  him  by  and  by. 
And  if  you  care  for  your  own  soul,  Celia, 
never  marry  one  man  as  long  as  you 
love  another." 

"  I  shall  never  marry  anybody,  dear 
auntie — never  !" 

"That's  bad,  too.  And  you  don't 
know.  If  that  boy  I  worshiped  so  had 
turned  out  a  worthless  man,  I  think  I 
should  never  have  connected  the  two, 
or  kept  caring  for  him.  But  when  he 
was  there  for  years  daily  before  my  eyes 
— daily  doing  good — the  very  embodi 
ment  of  all  that  is  kind  and  generous 
and  faithful — the  idol  of  hundreds  besides 
myself  —  the  benefactor  of  the  whole 
neighborhood  —  your  own  best,  noblest 
friend,  too — " 

"  Gracious  Heaven  !" 

"Yes,  you  have  guessed  it — Frank 
Sydenham.  Sometimes  I  watched  him 
from  behind  the  curtains  as  he  rode  past 
our  windows.  But  he  never  saw  it. 
Thank  God  that  he  has  no  cause  to 
despise  me  !  I  had  to  tell  you,  Celia, 
for  I  haven't  come  to  the  worst  thing  I 
was  guilty  of — the  wrong  I  did  you." 

"You  are  exhausting  yourself,  dear 
mother — " 

"  It  must  be  told,  and  better  at  once. 
I  saw  that  Mr.  Sydenham  loved  you, 
Celia — indeed,  how  could  he  help  it  ? — 
and  I  didn't  wish  him  to  marry  you.  It 
was  very,  very  wicked  in  me  ;  but  that 
was  one  of  the  reasons  why  I  wanted  so 
much  that  you  should  marry  Mowbray." 

Celia  was  so  amazed  at  this  disclosure 
that,  for  the  time,  she  could  not  utter 
a  single  word.  Alice  proceeded  des 
perately,  as  a  convict  might  in  his  last 
confession  : 

"I  did   think   I'd  hide   it  from  you, 


206 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


darling,  and  let  you  believe  your  aunt 
was  a  good  woman.  But  I  couldn't 
bear  to  put  it  off.  In  heaven — but  I 
dare  say  I  sha'n't  go  there  after  all  I've 
done  —  at  any  rate,  I  couldn't  bear  to 
think  that  you  should  hear  it  there  first ; 
so  I  had  to  tell  you  here." 

Celia  still  sat  like  one  stunned,  her 
mind  bewildered  with  the  strange  ideas — 
unwholesome  fancies  Dr.  Meyrac  might 
well  call  them — that  had  just  been  thrust 
upon  her  ;  and  her  aunt  added  : 

« I  don't  expect  to  live,  my  child,  and 
I'm  sure  I  don't  wish  it.  But  whether 
I  live  or  die,  I  want  you  not  to  think 
worse  of  me  than  I  deserve.  If  I  live, 
I  shall  never  feel  again  as  I  have  done. 
I  can't  tell  you  how  much  this  sickness 
has  changed  all  my  thoughts  and  wishes. 
Whether  I  am  here  to  see  it,  or  whether 
I  witness  it  (if  spirits  are  permitted  to 
look  back)  from  the  other  side,  it  will 
be  a  happiness  to  me  to  see  you  Frank 
Sydenham's  wife.  I  hope  and  pray  you 
may  be." 

"  Dear  mother,  don't  I  know  there's 
nothing  you  think  would  make  me  happy 
that  you  wouldn't  be  glad  of?  But  for 
Mr.  Sydenham's  sake  and  for  mine, 
please,  please  don't  talk  so.  Such  a 
thing  never  for  one  moment  crossed  his 
thoughts." 

"  His  lips,  you  mean.  Of  course  not, 
so  long  as  he  knew  you  were  engaged  to 
Mowbray." 

"  Pray,  pray  don't !  I  do  believe  Lela 
doesn't  love  her  father  much  better  than 
I  do  ;  but  my  love  for  him  is  just  like 
hers—" 

At  this  point,  however,  conscience 
checked  her.  She  remembered  the  day 
— was  it  only  seven  or  eight  months 
ago  ? — when  she  was  sitting  in  that  arm 
chair  before  Sydenham's  parlor  fire. 
Had  she  really  told  him  then  that  he 
never  seemed  to  her  like  a  father,  and 
never  would  ?  Had  he  kissed  her  ?  Only 
on  the  forehead,  and  only  as  any  kind 
old  gentleman  might.  But  was  he  so 
old,  after  all  ?  She  was  getting  confused, 
so  she  came  back  to  what  she  did  know. 

"  I  haven't  a  heart  to  give  to  Mr. 
Sydenham  if  he  asked  for  it.  They  say 
Evelyn  is  engaged  to  Ellen  Tyler :  I 


dare  say  it's  true  ;  but,  mother,  mother, 
I  love  him  still !" 

Celia  laid  her  head  on  the  pillow  be 
side  her  aunt's.  Alice  put  her  arms 
round  the  girl's  neck,  kissed  her  fervent 
ly,  and  wept  silently  and  long.  « My 
own  child,  my  own  darling !"  she  said 
at  last.  "Ah,  if  my  little  Lizzie  had  only 
lived !  My  heart  would  never  have 
strayed  from  home  then." 

After  that  they  were  long  silent. 
Then  an  intuition  came  to  Celia.  "  They 
would  tell  her  if  they  knew  all,"  she 
thought ;  then  to  her  aunt :  "  You  think 
more  of  Ethan  and  his  welfare  than  of 
anything  else,  don't  you,  mother  ?" 

"  Of  you  and  Ethan.  I  have  nobody 
else  to  care  for  now." 

"  But  you  may  have,  by  and  by." 

Her  aunt  looked  up,  troubled,  but  her 
brow  cleared  when  Celia  asked :  "  Did 
it  ever  occur  to  you  that  Ethan  might 
have  taken  a  fancy  to  some  one  in 
Chiskauga  ?" 

"  Has  he  ?"  with  a  look  of  surprise. 

"  It  isn't  settled,  I  think.  She  feared 
that  she  was  getting  blind,  and  accepted 
him  conditionally  only." 

«  Miss  Ethelridge,  is  it  ?" 

"  Ellie  —  yes.  Such  a  noble,  warm 
hearted  girl,  mother :  so  much — oh  so 
much  —  better  than  I  shall  ever  be. 
Ethan's  heart  is  in  it,  and  he  would 
marry  her,  if  she  were  blind,  to-morrow." 

«  But  a  blind  wife — a  blind  mother  of 
a  household,  Celia  ?" 

"  I  know ;  but  perhaps  she  might 
have  a  dear,  good  mother-in-law  staying 
with  her.  You  will  never  see  your  little 
Lizzie  again,  auntie,  till  you  see  her  in 
heaven,  but  you  may  see  your  grand 
children." 

The  look  that  came  over  Alice's  face 
was  something  beautiful  to  see.  After  a 
pause  she  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "  Per 
haps  I  may  recover.  Celia  dear,  what 
was  that  last  extract  you  read  me  from 
Madame  Roland's  diary  ?" 

Celia  went  to  the  window  and  read  by 
the  bright  moonlight :  "  In  default  of 
happiness  one  can  often  obtain  peace, 
and  that  replaces  it." 

Toward  morning  Alice  slept  tran 
quilly  several  hours,  and  awoke  free  from 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


207 


fever.  Then  she  sent  for  Ethan,  and 
had  a  long  talk  with  him.  From  that 
day  they  dated  her  convalescence. 

It  was  an  imprudent  thing  in  Alice 
Hartland  to  speak  as  she  did  to  her 
niece,  especially  as,  by  Ethan's  advice, 
they  had  begged  Mr.  Sydenham  to  act 
as  Celia's  guardian,  and  he  had  consent 
ed  and  been  appointed.  The  girl  was 
not  at  all  disposed  to  imagine  people  in 
love  with  her.  But  this  new  relation 
brought  Sydenham  and  her  a  good  deal 
together.  Then,  too,  she  visited  Rose- 
bank  thrice  a  week  to  give  Leoline  mu 
sic-lessons.  So  that,  even  if  she  had 
desired  to  avoid  him,  she  could  not  well 
do  so  without  appearing  unfriendly  or 
ungrateful.  She  did  not  really  desire  to 
avoid  him,  but  she  was  no  longer  at  ease 
with  him  as  formerly ;  and  when  she 
became  conscious  of  this  it  provoked 
and  annoyed  her.  If  she  had  not  been 
too  busy  to  be  sentimental,  it  might  have 
made  her  unhappy. 

She  had  neglected  the  school  some 
what  during  her  aunt's  illness,  but  as 
soon  as  Alice  was  able  to  sit  up  and 
walk  about  a  little,  she  returned  to  her 
teaching,  resolved  to  make  up  for  lost 
time.  Some  of  the  pupils,  she  found, 
had  been  taken  from  school  by  their  pa 
rents.  Was  the  poison  working  ?  Was 
she  to  be  a  clog,  instead  of  an  aid,  to 
Ellinor  ?  Her  dream  of  usefulness  be 
gan  to  fade. 

For  a  moment  the  thought  crossed 
her  that  she  ought  to  withdraw  from  the 
partnership.  But  Ellinor's  waning  sight ! 
And  then  the  indignation  against  injus 
tice  which  lurks  in  the  mildest  natures 
woke  up  a  little  too.  Ought  Mrs.  Wolf 
gang  and  her  abettors  to  succeed  in 
their  base  plot  ?  "  They  ought  not,  and 
they  shall  not,"  she  thought,  "if  I  can 
help  it."  She  was  getting  pugnacious. 
That  is  wholesome — in  moderation. 

The  same  evening  (Mrs.  Clymer  hav 
ing  gone  out)  Leoline  and  her  father 
urged  Celia  so  cordially  to  take  tea  with 
them,  after  her  lesson  was  over,  that  she 
could  not  well  refuse.  She  spoke  of  the 
pupils  they  had  lost. 

"  I    shouldn't   wonder,"    said    Syden 


ham,  "if  you  have  been  setting  that 
down  to  your  account."  Celia  looked 
embarrassed.  "  I  thought  so,"  pursued 
Sydenham.  "  There  is  a  cabal  formed — 
not  against  you  individually,  but  against 
the  Chiskauga  Institute.  Poor  Ellinor 
Ethelridge  has  her  full  share  of  the 
abuse.  They  have  been  inventing  and 
circulating  all  kinds  of  scandalous  stories 
about  her  past  life." 

"  Who,  papa  ?"  asked  Leoline. 

"  Cranstoun  and  Mrs.  Wolfgang,  and 
their  set — all  whom  they  can  influence 
or  delude." 

"If  it  really  would  shield  Ellie  from 
their  malice — "  Celia  began,  but  Leoline 
gave  her  such  a  look  that  she  stopped, 
half  inclined  to  laugh. 

"If  you  do — if  you  do  !"  said  Leo- 
line,  shaking  her  finger  at  her.  "What ! 
Give  it  up,  and  let  these  wretches  have 
it  all  their  own  way  !" 

"We  must  fight  the  battle  through, 
Celia,"  Sydenham  said — "  not  for  your 
sake  and  Ellinor's  only :  for  the  sake 
of  the  place.  I  never  let  such  things 
go." 

"  That's  my  darling  papa,"  said  Leo- 
line,  kissing  him.  "  And,  Celia,  if  you 
desert  us,  I'll  disown  you." 

"  She  will  not  desert  us,"  said  her 
father,  smiling. 

"I'm  afraid,"  said  Celia,  "that  what 
somebody  calls  'the  old  Adam'  within 
me  was  a  good  deal  stirred  up  when  I 
thought  of  Mr.  Cranstoun  and  Mrs. 
Wolfgang  enjoying  their  triumph." 

"  I  declare  I  begin  to  have  hopes  of 
you,  Celia."  Of  course  it  was  Leoline 
who  said  this  ;  and  she  added  :  "  I  once 
heard  some  one  say  to  papa  (I  hope  it's 
not  wicked  to  repeat  it)  that  we  '  need  a 
little  of  the  devil  in  us  to  keep  the  devil 
out.'  But  it's  only  a  tiny  bit  of  the  old 
Adam  that's  in  you,  my  dear — of  Adam 
when  he  was  so  old  he  had  almost  for 
gotten  about  Paradise — nothing  worse, 
you  good  girl.  It's  only  creatures  like 
me  that  have  a  touch  of  the  old  Serpent. 
Then,  perhaps  he  wasn't  so  very  bad, 
after  all.  Milton  gives  him  rather  a  fine 
character." 

Celia  laughed,  and  that  did  her  good  : 
"  If  you  had  been  a  man,  Lela,  what  a 


208 


BETOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


soldier  you'd  have  made  !  You  would 
have  led  your  men  anywhere." 

« I  don't  know  about  that.  I  never 
was  tried  with  that  'villainous  saltpetre.' 
It  must  be  a  nervous  sort  of  thing  to 
stand  to  be  shot  at." 

"  It  needs  as  much  courage  to  be 
slandered  without  flinching,"  said  her 
father.  "The  best  way  to  avoid  cow 
ardice  in  danger  is  to  think  of  others, 
not  of  one's  self.  These  children  that 
are  under  your  care  will  be  the  sufferers, 
Celia,  if  you  give  way.  Cranstoun  and 
his  set  are  making  war  on  them." 

»  What  motive  can  he  have  ?" 

"  Two,  probably.  A  certain  young 
lady  wouldn't  have  him  :  that  cuts  deep. 
Then  Creighton  is  in  his  way — has 
already  carried  off,  probably,  half  his 
law-practice.  So  he  connects  his  name 
with  the  scandal  he  spreads  about  Miss 
Ethelridge.  They  were  friends,  you 
know,  before  either  of  them  came  to 
Chiskauga." 

«  What  a  world  !"  said  Celia. 

"  I  dare  say  it's  all  right  enough," 
said  Leoline.  "  What  would  be  the  use 
of  that  organ  of  combativeness  if  every 
thing  went  just  straight  ?  Let's  divide 
forces,  papa.  If  you'll  manage  that 
sneaking  rascal,  Cranstoun,  I'll  under 
take  Mrs.  Wolfgang." 

"  Gently,  my  child.  I'm  afraid  you'll 
turn  out  like  the  '  beau  sabreur.'  Murat, 
with  his  white  plume,  was  splendid  at 
the  head  of  a  cavalry  charge,  but  when 
it  came  to  military  tactics — 

"Well,  papa,  you  be  Napoleon.  I 
won't  charge  till  you  bid  me." 

«  Keep  a  good  heart,"  said  Sydenham 
to  Celia.  "  We  are  too  strong  for  them. 
And  from  what  Creighton  told  me,  you 
may  not  need  to  remain  schoolmistress 
unless  you  like." 

"  But  I  do  like,  in  any  event." 

Sydenham  smiled,  well  pleased,  and 
Celia  blushed.  "  What  a  ridiculous 
habit  it  is  !"  she  thought. 

"  And  by  the  way,"  added  Sydenham, 
"all  that  lecture  of  mine  on  Grangula's 
Mount  went  for  nothing,  it  seems.  I 
have  to  congratulate  you,  Celia — no,  not 
you,  the  people  of  Ohio — that  they  had 
sense  and  justice  enough  to  pass  and 


maintain  in  force  a  law  under  which  you 
are  your  father's  legitimate  child." 

"  That  must  be  gall  and  wormwood  to 
Mrs.  Wolfgang,"  said  Leoline.  "  It  will 
be  no  fight  at  all.  Their  ammunition's 
giving  out." 

"  Not  so  fast,  Mademoiselle  Murat," 
smiling.  "We  mustn't  underrate  our 
opponents'  strength.  I  haven't  made 
up  my  mind  just  what  ought  to  be  done, 
Celia,  but,  depend  upon  it,  we  shall  see 
you  and  Ellinor  through." 

Then  they  had  music,  and  Celia  rode 
home  by  moonlight.  She  left  Rosebank, 
as  she  almost  always  did  after  a  talk 
with  Sydenham,  in  good  heart.  There 
was  something  contagious,  too,  in  that 
daring  spirit  of  Leoline's. 

When  Celia  reached  home,  she  found 
that  Ellinor  had  been  spending  the  even 
ing  with  Mrs.  Hartland,  and  that  Ethan's 
lady-love  was  in  a  fair  way  to  become  a 
special  favorite  with  her  possible  mother- 
in-law.  "  If  you  had  searched  the  world 
over,"  Alice  said  to  Ethan,  as  he  re 
turned  from  escorting  Ellinor  home,  "  I 
don't  think  you  could  have  pleased  me 
better." 

How  happy  the  good  fellow  went  to 
bed  !  After  he  was  gone,  Alice  looked 
so  much  better  and  more  cheerful  than 
usual  that  Celia,  after  putting  her  arms 
round  her  neck  and  kissing  her,  was 
tempted  to  venture  a  saucy  question : 
"Auntie,  you've  got  over  thinking  you 
were  so  terribly  wicked,  haven't  you  ?" 

Alice  winced  a  little,  yet  she  could 
not  help  smiling,  and  Celia  went  on : 
"  Do  you  think  it  would  have  been  be 
having  so  very  much  better  to  take  a 
stand  against  Evelyn,  so  that  Mr.  Syd 
enham  might  have  had  a  chance  by  and 
by?" 

"Ah!  you  think  he  might  have  had 
a  chance  ?" 

"  No,  I  don't,  but  you  do.  Mother 
dear,  would  it  have  been  the  virtuous 
thing  and  the  kind  thing  to  run  down 
Mowbray,  and  tell  me  I  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  myself  to  love  such  a  man  as 
that,  when  there  were  so  many  better 
ones  in  the  world,  and  then  to  have 
given  me  a  hint  that  I  had  better  take 
Mr.  Sydenham  instead  ?" 


BEYOND    THE   BREAKERS. 


209 


«  For  shame,  Celia  !  You've  been 
talking  with  Leoline,  one  can  see." 

"  Not  about  you,  mother.  There's 
another  thing  I  want  to  know" — in  a 
graver  tone,  a  slight  shade  of  sadness 
coming  over  the  April  sky  of  that  tell 
tale  face— 

«  Well,  dear  ?" 

"  I've  been  with  you  daily,  years  and 
years.  You  kept  away  from  Mr.  Syden- 
ham.  You  devoted  yourself  to  my  uncle. 
You  labored  with  him  as  Madame  Ro 
land  did  with  her  husband.  I  think  you 
gave  up  dear  friends,  too,  for  his  sake. 
What  more  could  you  do  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  hesitating.  «  Yes,  I 
could  have  kept  from  thinking  about 
Mr.  Sydenham  at  all." 

"  I  wish  you'd  tell  me  how  to  set 
about  such  a  thing,  auntie."  The  tone 
was  light,  but  the  soft  eyes  glistened. 
"  Right  in  the  midst  of  our  lessons  I 
keep  thinking  of  a  man  that's  not  half  so 
good  as  Mr.  Sydenham,  in  spite  of  all  I 
can  do." 

«  Poor  child  !" 

"  You  kept  thinking  Mr.  Sydenham 
was  a  man  in  a  thousand — so  he  is — 
that  he  did  ever  so  much  good  to  this 
village,  to  all  the  neighborhood.  So  he 
does  :  I  don't  believe  Pope's  <  Man  of 
Ross'  was  a  bit  better.  Why  shouldn't 


you  think  what  was  true  ?  Then  maybe 
you  thought  —  don't  be  angry,  mother 
dear — maybe  you  did  think,  sometimes, 
that  if  you  had  been  his  wife — " 

Alice  turned  deadly  pale. 

"Well,  I  won't,  mother.  But  how 
could  you  help  it  ?  And  it  was  true, 
too.  Then  you  did  the  right  thing. 
You  never  neglected  one  duty :  you 
never  said  one  complaining  word.  You 
did  more  than  praying  not  to  be  led  into 
temptation :  you  kept  out  of  it.  My 
uncle's  dead  and  gone,  and  I  shall  never 
think  of  him  but  kindly.  Yet  if  I  had 
been  in  your  place,  auntie,  I  could  never, 
never  have  made  him  the  wife  you  did. 
You  never  crossed  a  wish  of  his.  And 
I  dare  say  he  knows  now  what  a  hard 
time  you  had  of  it  1" 

Alice  wept -so  long  that  Celia  blamed 
herself  bitterly  for  the  agitation  she  had 
caused.  Yet  when  it  was  over,  and  her 
aunt  had  had  a  night's  rest,  she  was  all 
the  better  for  her  niece's  downright 
words.  Her  mind  gradually  resumed  its 
tone.  And— let  the  truth  be  told  even 
if  the  widow's  character  suffer  thereby — 
before  another  month  had  elapsed  there 
oame  over  her  a  calm,  subdued  cheerful 
ness,  such  as,  during  all  her  married  life, 
that  pale  face  had  never  worn. 


PART    X  I. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

WHAT  THE  CAPTAIN    SAW   ON   THE    SNOW. 
"  When  deep  sleep  falleth  upon  men  ;  in  slumber- 
ings  upon  the  bed  ;  then  God  openeth  the  ears  of  men 
and  sealeth  their  instruction."— JOB  xxxiii.  14. 

«  "\7OU   will  come  to  see  him,    Mr. 

I     Harper?" 

"  Surely,  my  child.  I  did  purpose  to 
call  on  Betty  Carson  this  morning,  but 
that  will  do  later." 

"  It  will  be  such  a  kindness  to  us  !  I 
don't  know  what  to  think  of  father's 
state." 

It  was  Ellen  Tyler  who  spoke.  They 
were  sitting,  on  a  bright,  fresh  morning, 
toward  the  end  of  May,  on  Harper's 
woodbine-shaded  porch. 

"  What  are  the  symptoms,  Ellen  ?" 

"I'm  afraid  you'll  hardly  believe  me, 
sir,  they  are  so  strange.  I  suppose  he 
must  have  dreams  at  night  about  that 
awf;:l  boat-burning.  Anyhow,  we  can't 
Jet  him  sleep  without  locking  the  door  : 
:he  told  us  to  do  it  himself.  The  reason 
was,  he  had  got  up  two  or  three  times  in 
the  middle  of  the  night  and  rushed  out 
into  the  yard,  as  if  the  house  was  on  fire. 
Last  night  I  heard  a  noise  in  his  room  : 
he  had  raised  the  window  and  was  try 
ing  to  undo  the  shutters.  When  I  ran 
in  and  did  my  best  to  wake  him,  he 
cried  out :  <  Quick,  quick,  Nelly !  Don't 
you  see  the  flames  ?'  Oh,  Mr.  Harper, 
only  think  if  he  had  jumped  out !  You 
-know  our  house  stands  on  the  edge  of 
the  steep  bank,  and  he  would  have  gone 
down,  eighteen  or  twenty  feet,  into  the 
mill-race.  I  never  was  so  frightened  in 
all  my  life." 

"  I  am  glad  you  came  to  me,  dear 
child." 

"  I  wouldn't  have  troubled  you  indeed, 
sir,  if  I  had  thought  I  could  manage  it 
myself.  Preacher  Larrabee  sometimes 
comes  to  see  father,  though  we  don't 
belong  to  his  church ;  but  he's  at  Mount 
Sharon  this  week.  'Seems  to  me  father 
has  something  on  his  mind  that  vexes 
him  ;  and  then — oh  I'm  sure  he  thinks 


he's  going  to  die.  You  re  such  a  good 
man,  Mr.  Harper,  and  I  know  you  can 
do  him  good." 

He  smiled  and  laid  his  hand  kindly 
on  her  head.  " Wait  here,"  he  said : 
"  I'll  go  with  you." 

In  an  adjoining  paddock  was  Trooper 
comfortably  browsing.  His  master  en 
ticed  him,  with  a  tempting  ear  of  corn, 
into  the  stable,  harnessed  him  to  the 
ancient  gig  and  drove  round  to  the  front 
gate. 

"  Come,  my  child,"  he  called  to  Ellen. 

"  Mr.  Harper,"  the  girl   said  as  she 

came  up,  "  let  me  walk  home.     I'd  rather 

father  should  think  you  came  to  see  him 

accidentally." 

"  What's  that  you've  been  buying  in 
the  village  ?" 

«  Some  stuff  to  make  a  soft  cushion  for 
father's  arm-chair." 

"  Get  in,  then.  I  picked  you  up  re 
turning  home.  I'll  tell  him  so." 

The  good  man  was  quite  unprepared 
for  the  sad  change  in  Tyler's  appearance, 
but  evincing  no  surprise,  he  conversed 
a  while  on  commonplaces,  and  then  said  : 
"Your  daughter  tells  me  you  haven't  quite 
got  over  that  terrible  accident.  You  must 
have  passed  through  scenes  such  as  few 
men  have  witnessed." 

"  That's  a  truer  word  than  you  think 
for,  Mr.  Harper.  Nelly  dear,  I  want  to 
have  a  good  talk  with  the  minister,  and 
maybe  he'll  stay  and  take  a  bite  of  dinner 
with  us.  Nell  brags  on  her  strawberries, 
Mr.  Harper— Hovey  seedlings,  I  think 
she  calls  them :  her  sparrowgrass  is 
pretty  much  over,  but  her  peas  are  in 
their  prime — " 

"  Strawberries  and  peas  are  too  great 
a  temptation.  I'll  stay  and  see  what 
sort  of  gardener  Nelly  is." 

"Now,  Nell,"  said  her  father,  "put 
your  best  foot  foremost ;"  and  the  girl, 
delighted,  ran  off  on  her  mission.  "  I 
didn't  want  the  lassie  to  hear  what  I've 
got  to  tell  :  she  has  trouble  enough 
already.  I've  had  a  call,  Mr.  Harper." 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


211 


«A  call?" 

«A  notice  that  Fm  not  long  for  this 
world." 

«  Tell  me  about  it." 

Tyler  related  the  story  of  his  escape, 
the  vision  he  had  during  his  trance  be 
neath  the  waters  of  Lake  Erie,  and  the 
numerous  and  minute  coincidences  be 
tween  what  he  dreamed  and  what  actually 
happened  at  the  time  in  his  mill-yard  at 
home.  Then  he  added :  "  I  dare  say 
you  can't  believe  it,  Mr.  Harper,  and  I 
won't  think  a  bit  hard  of  it  if  you  say  so. 
Sometimes  I  think  I  don't  more  than 
half  believe  it  myself." 

"A  single  year  ago,"  replied  the  min 
ister,  "  I  might  have  acted  the  Sadducee 
in  such  a  matter :  but  I  have  had  a 
strange  experience  since.  Last  autumn 
my  Methodist  friend,  Mr.  Larrabee — and 
he  is  a  pious  and  truthful  man — told  me 
a  story  just  as  wonderful  as  that.  But 
you  said  that  you  had  had  some  notice 
that  you  were  soon  to  die.  How  was 
that  ?" 

"  Wasn't  that  vision  notice  enough  ?" 

"  I  must  tell  you  Mr.  Larrabee's 
story,  Tyler,  and  then  you  can  judge  for 
yourself." 

He  did ;  and  afterward,  at  Tyler's 
earnest  request,  wrote  it  out  for  him,  as 
follows  : 

THE    METHODIST   PREACHER'S    STORY. 

During  the  early  years  of  the  present 
century,  Captain  John  Pintard,  then  a 
young,  unmarried  man,  was  master  and 
part  owner  of  a  small  schooner  belong 
ing  to  Shrewsbury,  New  Jersey,  and 
trading  between  New  York  and  Virginia. 

On  one  occasion,  during  the  month 
of  January,  returning  from  Norfolk  laden 
with  oysters,  the  vessel  was  driven  on 
shore,  by  stress  of  weather,  between  Cape 
May  and  Great  Egg  Harbor.  The  cap 
tain  and  crew  succeeded,  by  strenuous 
exertions,  in  reaching  the  land,  much 
exhausted,  however,  by  exposure,  espe 
cially  the  captain,  who  had  been  at  the 
helm  for  nearly  twelve  consecutive  hours. 
By  this  time  it  was  quite  dark. 

The  spot  where  they  got  on  shore 
being  only  about  forty  miles  from  where 
Captain  Pintard  lived,  he  was  familiar 


with  the  neighborhood,  and  knew  that 
there  was  a  tavern  about  a  mile  distant. 
He  pointed  out  the  direction  to  his  men, 
and  through  a  dismal  tempest  of  snow 
and  sleet  they  commenced  their  journey 
toward  it. 

The  captain  took  the  lead,  but  thor 
oughly  chilled  as  well  as  exhausted  by 
his  long  vigil  and  exposure  to  the  bitter 
cold,  he  had  not  proceeded  far  before  he 
felt  creeping  over  him  that  overpowering 
torpor  which  to  the  wintry  traveler  has 
so  often  been  the  precursor  of  death. 
He  knew  his  danger  and  sought  to  shake 
off  the  lethargic  feeling.  In  vain.  He 
threw  himself  on  the  snow,  and  bade  his 
men  hurry  on  to  the  tavern  and  send 
back  assistance.  At  first  the  brave  fel 
lows  refused  to  do  so.  Two  of  them 
sought  to  drag  him  along,  but  after  a 
time,  warned  by  approaching  drowsiness 
in  themselves,  they  became  convinced 
that  his  safety  as  well  as  theirs  required 
that  for  the  time  he  should  be  abandoned. 

His  sensations  when  they  left  him  he 
ever  after  described  as  soothing  and 
pleasurable.  He  felt  as  one  enjoying 
the  luxury  of  a  comfortable  bed,  and 
was  soon  wholly  insensible  to  cold  and 
tempest. 

The  next  thing  he  remembered  was 
that  he  seemed  to  be  getting  over  the 
fence  on  the  back  part  of  the  lot  on 
which  stood  his  mother's  house.  He 
saw  the  door  open  and  his  mother,  sister 
and  aunt  Nancy  come  out  toward  the 
well.  The  aunt  went  in  front,  carrying 
a  lantern  ;  his  mother  followed  with  a 
pail  in  her  hand,  and  as  she  approached 
the  well,  a  sudden  gust  of  wind  blew  off 
her  hood.  "  What  a  terrible  night !" 
he  then  heard  her  say:  "it  blows  a  hur 
ricane.  Pray  God  my  poor  boy  be  not 
out  in  it !" 

"  Oh  no,"  replied  the  aunt :  «  even  if 
he  was  off  the  coast,  he  must  have  seen 
it  coming  on  and  made  for  some  harbor." 

The  captain  was  very  anxious  to  speak 
to  them  and  assure  them  of  his  safety, 
but  the  first  attempt  failed,  and  before 
he  could  renew  it,  mother,  sister,  aunt 
and  his  paternal  home  all  faded  aw'ay, 
and  he  felt  sudden  and  excruciating  pain. 
Next  he  became  sensible  of  voices 


212. 


BEYOND    TPIE  BREAKERS. 


around  him.  At  last  he  distinguished 
the  words,  "  He's  comin'  to  :  rub  away, 
boys  !  Captain  John's  good  for  many  a 
year  yet."  He  recognized  the  voice  as 
that  of  a  pilot  with  whom  he  was  well 
acquainted.  "  Can  I  be  at  the  old 
tavern?"  he  thought.  After  a  time  he 
opened  his  eyes,  and  they  met  those  of 
the  pilot  looking  at  him.  This  latter 
was  a  jovial  old  fellow,  but  somewhat 
profane  withal :  the  captain  and  he  had 
often  been  boon  companions. 

« Halloa,  Captain  John  !"  he  cried. 
"  Come  back,  eh  ?"  The  reviving  man 
tried  to  speak,  but  could  not.  "  I  say, 
old  fellow,"  continued  the  other,  "been 
on  a  cruise  down  below  ?  Seen  Old 
Davy  there  ?  What's  the  news  from 
hell  anyhow,  Captain  John  ?" 

A  second  strenuous  effort  to  articulate 
was  more  successful  than  the  first,  and 
the  captain,  catching  his  old  companion's 
tone,  replied :  «  I  heard  there  was  a 
great  demand  for  pilots  there." 

The  retort  caused  a  roar  of  laughter 
from  all  present,  and  none  joined  in  it 
more  heartily  than  the  object  of  the 
joke. 

The  men,  it  seems,  having  safely 
reached  the  tavern,  had  instantly  des 
patched  aid  to  bring  in  the  inanimate 
body  of  the  captain.  The  usual  restora 
tives  had  been  employed  for  some  time 
in  vain — at  last  successfully.  After  a 
few  hours'  sleep  the  sufferer  was  com 
paratively  well.  When  he  awoke  next 
morning,  the  strange  dream  he  had  had 
during  his  trance  recurred  to  his  memory 
with  all  the  vividness  of  a  real  occurrence. 
He  could  scarcely  persuade  himself  he 
had  not  actually  been  at  home  and  seen 
his  relatives  and  heard  their  conversation. 

Pondering  over  this  matter,  his  impa 
tience  became  so  great  that  he  bade  his 
first  mate  look  to  the  condition  of  the 
schooner ;  and  then,  hiring  a  convey 
ance,  he  set  out  for  his  mother's  house 
to  have  his  doubts  solved. 

The  old  lady's  joy  at  sight  of  her  son 
was  great,  and  to  the  bad  news  he 
1 -rough  t  she  replied  cheerily :  "  God 
will  give  you  the  means  to  buy  another 
schooner.  He  didn't  forsake  you  when 
you  lay  in  that  trance  on  the  snow." 


"Mother,"  said  the  captain,  "did  you 
go  out  to  the  well,  last  night,  late  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  son.     Why  do  you  ask  ?" 

"  Tell  me  what  happened,  but  try  to 
remember  everything  you  said  and  did, 
no  matter  whether  it  was  important  or 
not.  Was  any  one  with  you  ?" 

The  old  lady  reflected  :  "  Yes,  Nancy 
was  with  me,  and  your  sister.  It  was 
pitch-dark,  and  Nancy  carried  a  lantern. 
I  remember,  too,  the  wind  was  very 
strong  and  blew  off  my  hood.  I  thought 
I  should  have  lost  it." 

"  Did  you  say  anything,  mother  ?" 

"Yes.  I  prayed  God  you  might  not 
be  out  in  such  a  fearful  night." 

"And  I,"  said  Nancy,  "told  her  I  was 
sure  you  must  have  seen  it  come  on  and 
made  for  some  port  or  other." 

The  captain  sat  deep  in  thought. 
"  I've  been  very  wicked,  mother,"  he 
said  at  last.  "  My  first  word,  when  I 
woke  from  that  trance,  was  a  profane 
jest.  But  I  did  not  know,  then,  how 
merciful  He  had  been.  He  showed  me 
last  night  that  I  had  an  immortal  soul. 
While  my  body  lay  on  the  snow  He 
brought  my  spirit  here,  home  to  you.  I 
saw  you  and  Aunt  Nancy  and  sister 
come  out  to  the  well :  I  saw  your  hood 
blow  off:  I  heard  every  word  you  said. 
I  have  been  a  wicked,  careless  sinner : 
I've  never  sought  religion,  as  you  wished 
me  to  do  ;  but,  with  God's  help,  mother, 
I  will." 

His  mother,  a  devout  Methodist,  was 
delighted.  Her  son  kept  his  word.  He 
became  a  noted  member  of  the  Meth 
odist  Church,  and  a  constant  frequenter 
of  prayer  and  exhortation  meetings.  At 
these  latter  it  was  frequently  his  habit 
to  relate,  as  the  most  remarkable  inci 
dent  in  his  religious  experience,  the 
story  of  his  trance  on  the  wintry  snow 
and  his  spirit's  visit  to  the  maternal 
home. 

When  Mr.  Harper  had  told  the  miller 
the  above  story,  in  substance  as  here  set 
down,  the  latter  asked:  "But  do  you 
think  it  can  be  depended  on  ?  It  must 
be  nearly  fifty  years  since  it  happened." 

"  I  like  to  follow  up  such  things," 
said  Mr.  Harper.  "Last  winter,  as  I 


BETOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


213 


was  going  to  New  York,  Mr.  Larrabee 
gave  me  a  letter  that  put  me  on  the 
track.  Captain  Pintard,  I  found,  had 
been  dead  a  good  many  years,  but  his 
widow,  Mrs.  Phoebe  Pintard,  a  hale, 
hearty  old  dame,  confirmed  to  me  all  the 
main  incidents.  I  found  a  niece,  also, 
Mrs.  Maria  Douglass,  of  Middletown, 
New  Jersey,  who  had  heard  the  partic 
ulars,  more  than  once,  from  her  uncle 
himself;  and  she,  after  reading  the  story 
just  as  I  have  it,  allowed  me  to  use  her 
name  in  attestation  of  its  truth." 

This  set  Nelson  Tyler  to  thinking. 
"  How  long  did  the  captain  live  after 
that  vision  ?"  he  asked. 

"Over  thirty  years." 

A  deep  sigh  of  relief  attested  the  mill 
er's  satisfaction.  That  little  fact  out 
weighed,  with  him,  the  longest  philo 
sophical  argument.  "  But  it's  all  very 
strange,"  he  said  at  last. 

"  Very  strange,  yes.  We  are  fear 
fully  and  wonderfully  made.  Yet  I  see 
nothing  unlikely  in  it.  Skeptics  and 
scoffers  are  increasing  among  us,  and 
God  may  choose  this  method  of  helping 
our  unbelief.  You  were  very  near  death, 
Mr.  Tyler.  Your  spirit  may  have  been 
asserting  its  independent  existence  a 
little  in  advance,  and  borrowing  of  the 
near  Future  one  of  the  faculties  to  which 
it  is  born  heir.  I  do  think  you  have 
been  favored  by  witnessing  one  of  those 
experimental  proofs — rare  and  precious 
— that  confirm  to  us  the  soul's  immor 
tality —  one  of  those  inestimable  phe 
nomena,  the  character  of  which  enables 
us  to  solve,  by  crucial  test,  the  divine 
problem  of  a  world  to  come."  * 

*  I  agree  with  good  Mr.  Harper  as  to  the  import 
ance  and  the  need  of  such  experimental  proof.  Many 
excellent  persons,  pious  and  strictly  nursed  in  faith, 
have  been  overtaken  by  Giant  Despair  and  led  captive 
to  Doubting  Castle.  In  the  rectory  of  Epworth,  oc 
cupied  a  century  and  a  half  ago  by  Samuel  Wesley, 
father  of  John,  the  founder  of  Methodism,  there  oc 
curred  at  that  time  certain  strange  physical  disturb 
ances  which  the  family  found  it  impossible  to  refer  ex 
cept  to  an  ultra  mundane  source.  Emily,  the  eldest 
sister  of  John,  narrating  these  in  a  letter  to  her  broth 
er,  wrote  :  "  I  am  so  far  from  being  superstitious  that 
I  was  too  much  inclined  to  infidelity  ;  so  that  I  heart 
ily  rejoice  at  having  such  an  opportunity  of  convincing 
myself  past  doubt  or  scruple  of  the  existence  of  some 
beings  besides  those  we  see." — Memoirs  of  the  Wes 
ley  Family,'"  by  ADAM  CLARKE,  LL.D.,  F.  A.  S., 
vol.  i.,  p.  270. 


"  It  set  me  thinking  about  that  more 
than  I  had  ever  done  before,"  said  the 
miller. 

Ellen  came  to  announce  dinner.  The 
sight  of  the  peas  and  strawberries  proved 
a  pleasant  diversion  from  the  greater 
mysteries  of  Nature  they  had  been  con 
templating  ;  and  when  the  good  pastor 
remounted  his  gig  his  young  hostess  said 
to  herself,  "  How  much  more  cheerful 
father  is  !  I  haven't  seen  him  look  so 
like  himself  since  the  day  he  came  back 
from  that  awful  journey." 

In  the  evening,  all  motive  for  conceal 
ment  being  now  done  away,  the  miller 
related  to  his  wondering  daughter  both 
his  own  experience  and  that  of  the  Jer 
sey  captain.  As  in  the  father's  case,  so 
in  Ellen's — the  effect  was  to  quicken 
religious  sentiment  and  bring  home  more 
vivid  convictions  touching  the  reality  of 
a  future  state. 

Up  to  this  time,  Nelson  Tyler,  though 
he  usually  attended  divine  service,  had 
not  been  a  "professor,"  but  on  the  week 
following  he  and  Ellen  joined  Mr. 
Harper's  church. 

Mr.  Harper,  meanwhile,  revolving  in 
his  mind  what  he  had  just  heard,  drove 
slowly  back  to  Chiskauga  and  stopped 
at  Betty  Carson's  door. 

Betty  was  a  little  out  of  sorts.  A 
new  washerwoman,  Nance  Coombs,  had 
taken  off  some  of  her  customers.  This 
was  due  to  the  exertions  of  Mrs.  Wolf 
gang,  who  had  resented  the  tone  Betty 
assumed  in  defence  of  Celia  and  her 
parents.  The  villagers  were  beginning 
to  take  sides  on  the  Pembroke  and 
Ethelridge  controversy,  and  the  contest 
promised  to  wax  warm.  Betty  spoke  to 
Mr.  Harper  of  the  great  kindness  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Pembroke  had  shown  her. 
"And  then  I  was  always  such  a  favorite 
with  little  Miss  Celia  :  she  was  a  jewel 
of  a  baby,  sir.  And  Mr.  Pembroke,  he 
set  store  by  me.  One  day  he  made  me 
write  my  name  to  a  paper  of  his — for  a 
witness.  I  think  he  said." 

"  Why,  Betty,"  said  Harper,  smiling, 
« I  knew  you  could  read,  but  I  didn't 
suppose  you  could  write  too." 

"Just  me  name,  sir.     He  was  a  rale 


214 


BEYOND  THE  BREAKERS. 


kind  man — was  my  husband — afore  he 
took  to  drink.  He  was  a  good  scribe, 
too  ;  and  he  used  to  set  me  a  copy — 
Betty  Carson — till  I  could  write  it  most 
as  nice  as  himself." 

Mr.  Harper  did  not  think  of  asking 
Betty  what  sort  of  paper  it  was  she 
witnessed. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 
THE   MITE. 

THERE  was  a  Mite  at  Mrs.  Hartland's. 

When  a  village  has  two  clergymen,  it 
is  fortunate  if  they  happen  to  be  friends. 
As  the  Methodists  of  our  little  village 
did  not  feel  able  to  support  a  resident 
pastor,  Mr.  Larrabee  preached  on  alter 
nate  Sundays  at  Mount  Sharon  (the 
county-seat)  and  at  Chiskauga.  He  and 
Mr.  Harper  being  on  the  best  terms, 
their  respective  congregations  were  wont 
to  act  in  harmony. 

There  was  a  ladies'  sewing  society, 
for  example,  composed  of  Presbyterians, 
Methodists,  and  persons  who  were  neith 
er,  the  members  of  which  had  several 
times  helped  to  eke  out  Mr.  Larrabee's 
scanty  salary  by  contributions,  in  labor 
or  in  money,  to  the  comfort  of  his  fam 
ily.  Just  at  this  time,  the  Presbyterians 
hiving  purchased  a  cabinet  organ,  on 
which  a  hundred  dollars  was  still  duej 
the  society  held  weekly  "  Mites,"  as  they 
were  called,  at  which  each  person  con 
tributed  ten  cents  or  more  toward  the 
liquidation  of  the  deficiency.  Mr.  Har 
per,  Mr.  Larrabee,  Mr.  Hartland  while 
he  lived,  Mr.  Sydenham  and  others  had 
a  standing  invitation  to  these  meetings, 
and  while  the  ladies  plied  their  needles 
one  or  other  of  these  gentlemen  often 
read  or  spoke  to  them. 

About  six  weeks  after  Hartland's  death 
his  widow  offered  the  society  the  use  of 
her  spacious  parlors  during  the  afternoon 
for  one  of  its  weekly  assemblies,  and 
Sydenham  agreed  to  attend.  He  found 
some  fifty  or  sixty  ladies.  But  Ellinor 
and  Celia,  busy  at  school,  were  not  of  the 
number :  they  were  working,  just  then, 
under  considerable  discouragement,  near 
ly  one-fourth  of  their  pupils  having  been 
withdrawn. 


Sydenham  read  to  the  society  from 
the  life  of  Oberlin,  the  Alsatian  philan 
thropist  and  benevolent  pastor  of  Ban 
de-la-Roche.  Adverting  to  the  effects 
of  his  fifty  years'  labor  of  love  among  a 
primitive  people,  he  reminded  his  au 
ditors  how,  by  public  instruction,  whole 
communities  may  advance  in  civilization. 
Then,  in  few  words,  he  took  occasion  to 
commend  the  Chiskauga  Institute.  It 
was  managed,  he  remarked,  by  two  la 
dies  of  rare  qualifications  and  admirable 
judgment,  and  ought  to  have  a  hearty 
and  united  support.  "  I  have  visited 
schools  and  colleges,"  he  went  on,  "in 
many  of  our  States,  and  in  most  of  the 
kingdoms  of  Europe,  and  I  know  that 
this  institution  compares  favorably  with 
the  best  of  its  class.  Few  villages  in 
any  country  are  as  fortunate  as  we  in  the 
matter  of  teachers.  I  have  heard  with 
regret,"  he  added,  after  a  pause,  "that 
idle  or  ill-disposed  persons  among  us  have 
circulated  mischievous  stories  regarding 
these  teachers — stories  that  are  either 
irrelevant  or  without  any  foundation 
whatever.  So  far  as  these  tend  to  im 
pair  the  usefulness  of  public  function 
aries,  it  is  a  war  against  the  best  inter 
ests  of  the  place — an  unprincipled  war, 
too.  One  of  these  young  ladies  has  spent 
her  entire  life  among  us.  Blameless 
you  well  know  that  life  to  have  been. 
Against  her  it  is  alleged  that  she  is  an 
illegitimate  child,  and  as  such  should  not 
be  countenanced.  If  that  were  the  fact, 
it  would  be  a  most  cruel  injustice  to  visit 
such  a  misfortune  on  the  innocent.  But 
it  is  not  true.  Miss  Pembroke  is  as 
strictly  legitimate  as  any  one  to  whom  I 
have  now  the  pleasure  of  speaking. 

"As  to  the  other  lady  in  question,  I 
happen  to  know  that  of  which  we  must 
charitably  suppose  her  detractors  to  be 
ignorant.  The  reverse  of  fortune  which 
caused  Miss  Ethelridge  to  seek  a  home 
among  us  resulted  from  no  misconduct 
of  hers.  The  manner  in  which  she  has 
borne  it,  the  courage  and  ability  with 
which  she  has  maintained  herself,  and 
the  good  she  has  done  us,  are  above  all 
praise  :  they  entitle  her  to  esteem  and 
honor.  Her  conduct  ought  to  obtain  for 
her — will  obtain  for  her  among  all  just 


BEYOND    THE   BREAKERS. 


215 


and  well-disposed  persons  —  protection 
and  encouragement.  I  should  not,"  he 
subjoined  in  a  quieter  tone,  "have  taken 
up  your  time  with  these  remarks  if  I  did 
not  feel  that  the  reports  to  which  I  have 
alluded  are  an  injury  not  only  to  those 
who  disgrace  themselves  by  retailing 
them,  but  to  all  of  us  and  to  our  children. 
Will  you  allow  me  to  recommend,  ladies, 
that  you  meet  them  with  a  demand  for 
proof,  which  you  will  find  is  not  forth 
coming  ?" 

Sydenham  left  soon  after  speaking, 
and  the  circle  gradually  thinned  till  fif 
teen  or  twenty  only  remained  ;  among 
them,  Mrs.  Wolfgang,  Mrs.  Creighton, 
Leoline,  and  our  friend  Norah,  who  had 
joined  the  society  on  Leoline's  invita 
tion,  and  who  proved  to  be  as  deft  at 
needlework  as  skillful  in  butter-making. 

The  ladies  naturally  dropped  into  talk 
on  what  Mr.  Sydenham  had  been  saying. 
At  first  the  opinions  expressed  were  fa 
vorable.  That  roused  Mrs.  Wolfgang, 
whose  countenance  had  been  gradually 
darkening  at  each  successive  commenda 
tion  of  the  school  and  its  teachers.  "  For 
her  part,"  she  broke  out  at  last,  "she 
thought  there  ought  to  be  a  line  drawn 
between  morality  and  immorality.  What 
did  they  know  about  Miss  Ethelridge, 
except  that  Mr.  Creighton  had  been  ac 
quainted  with  her  before  she  turned  up 
here  ?  She  knew,  for  the  postmaster  had 
told  her,  that  letters  in  Mr.  Creighton's 
handwriting  had  come  to  the  lady  year 
after  year.  Was  she  engaged  to  him  ? 
She  ought  to  be.  But  it  didn't  look 
like  it :  she  went  about  with  other  men. 
Was  that  to  be  called  decent  behavior  ? 
She  held  her  head  high  enough,  as  any 
hussy  might.  What  of  that  ?  She  had 
relations,  no  doubt,  yet  not  one  of  them 
took  the  least  notice  of  her :  she  never 
heard  of  a  letter  coming  to  her  in  a 
lady's  handwriting.  It  was  all  very  well 
for  Mr.  Sydenham  to  say  there  was 
nothing  wrong.  If  there  was  nothing 
wrong,  why  didn't  he  let  them  know  all 
about  it  ?  A  bad  sign  when  things 
won't  bear  the  light !  And  if  he  didn't 
know  any  more  about  her  than  he  seem 
ed  to  know  about  Celia  Pembroke,  she 
(Mrs.  Wolfgang)  wouldn't  give  much 


for  his  opinion.  She  knew,  if  Mr.  Syd 
enham  didn't,  that  the  girl's  mother  nev 
er  was  legally  married  :  she  had  seen 
letters  from  the  father  to  Mr.  Cranstoun, 
confessing  it.  Wasnrt  that  proof?  Others 
might  send  their  children  to  the  daugh 
ter  of  a  kept  mistress  if  they  liked  :  she 
had  too  much  self-respect,  and  too  much 
regard  to  the  morals  and  the  reputation 
of  her  poor  innocent  girls,  to  trust  them 
in  the  hands  of  any  such  creature.  'Like 
father,  like  son,'  was  a  good  old  proverb, 
and  it  applied  just  as  much  to  daughters 
as  to  sons.  Then,  too,  what  were  they 
to  think  of  an  ofience  so  scandalous  that 
it  needed  downright  lies  to  support  it  ? 
If  the  child  of  a  man's  mistress  wasn't  a 
bastard,  she'd  like  to  know  what  a  bas 
tard  was  ?" 

Leoline,  our  readers  may  remember, 
had  said  to  Celia,  as  they  were  return 
ing  from  Grangula's  Mount  after  the 
public  speaking,  that  if  she  was  "  hard 
put  to  it"  she  thought  she  could  make  a 
speech  herself.  She  ivas  hard  put  to  it 
now.  While  Mrs.  Wolfgang  was  abus 
ing  Celia  and  Ellinor  she  had  sat  still, 
choking  down  her  indignation,  calling  to 
mind  her  father's  warning  to  Mademoi 
selle  Murat,  taking  stitches  each  long 
enough  for  two,  and  curbing  with  all  her 
might  her  eagerness  to  retort.  She 
would  have  succeeded — for  the  girl,  with 
all  her  impulsive  warmth,  had  a  good  deal 
of  self-control  when  occasion  called  for 
it — she  would  have  succeeded  in  keeping 
silence,  but  for  the  last  hit,  the  imputa 
tion  against  her  father.  That  was  the 
drop  too  much.  She  started  involun 
tarily  to  her  feet,  dropping  her  needle 
and  crushing  in  her  left  hand  the  gar 
ment  she  had  been  sewing. 

"  Mrs.  Wolfgang,"  she  burst  forth, 
"  you  called  papa  a  liar."  Then  she 
stopped,  trembling  from  head  to  foot 
and  struggling  desperately  for  compos 
ure.  "  You  called  him  so  because  he 
said  dear  Celia  was  a  legitimate  child. 
Yesterday  I  asked  papa  to  show  me  the 
law.  I  saw  it:  I  read  it.  It  said  that 
even  if  a  marriage  is  not  legal,  the  chil 
dren  shall  be  legitimate.  Mrs.  Pem 
broke's  marriage  was  not  legal,  but  Celia 
Pembroke  is  legitimate.  The  law  of  the 


216 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


land — the  authority  next  to  God's — says 
she  is.  Who  knows  best  —  the  law  or 
Mrs.  Wolfgang  ?  Who  is  the  liar  now, 
and  what  is  the  liar's  portion  ?"  Here 
she  checked  herself.  "  That  mayn't  be 
just.  Perhaps  she  knows  no  better  :  it 
may  be  sheer  ignorance,  but  ignorant 
people  ought  to  hold  their  tongues.  And 
this  is  the  woman  that  wants  somebody 
to  tell  her  all  about  Miss  Ethelridge 
from  the  time  she  was  a  baby  in  long 
clothes,  so  that  her  wisdom  may  en 
lighten  us,  and  we  may  get  to  know 
whether  it's  quite  safe  and  proper  for  us 
to  countenance  our  teacher  !  She  wants 
to  sit  in  judgment  on  Ellinor  Ethelridge, 
and  settle  who  may  write  letters  to  her 
and  who  may  not !  Why,  nobody  can 
look  for  an  instant  at  the  two  faces  with 
out  seeing  which  is  the  scold  and  which 
the  Christian  and  the  lady.  I  want  to 
know  what  good  Mrs.  Wolfgang  has 
ever  done  among  us  to  entitle  her  to  be 
judge  and  ruler?  Has  she  lifted  her 
finger  to  help  on  the  education  of  the 
place  ?  Has  she  entered  the  walls  of 
the  school  she's  been  trying  to  ruin  ? 
Never  since  I've  been  a  pupil  there. 
What  has  she  ever  done  for  Chiskauga  ? 
Nothing  that  I  know  of,  except  to  back 
bite  the  best  people  in  it,  and  set  her 
neighbors  by  the  ears.  Christ  tells  us 
that  the  peace-makers  shall  be  called  the 
children  of  God  :  I  wonder  whose  child 
Mrs.  Wolfgang  ought  to  be  called  ?  I 
know  I'd  as  soon  have  a  viper  in  my 
house.  No  wonder  good  Madame  Mey- 
rac  turned  her  out  of  doors.f  Poor  Celia, 
poor  Ellinor  ! — to  fall  into  such  merciless 
hands  as  hers !" 

Here  Leoline  broke  down  for  a  mo 
ment,  bursting  into  tears.  But  she 
dashed  them  indignantly  away,  and  turn 
ed  from  Mrs.  Wolfgang  to  the  other 
members  :  "I'm  ashamed  of  myself,  and 
I'm  so  glad  papa  wasn't  here  to  hear  me  ! 
I  know  I  oughtn't  to  have  spoken  as  I 
did  before  ladies  so  much  older  than  I. 
I  hope  you'll  forgive  me.  I  never  could 
stand  injustice  and  cruelty;  but  I'm 
very,  very  sorry  I  spoke  at  all  :  I  wish 
somebody  else  had  done  it." 

Before  she  could  say  more,  Mrs. 
Creighton  crossed  over,  took  her  in  her 


arms  and  kissed  her.  «  You're  a  brave, 
generous  girl,"  the  old  lady  said  ;  «  but 
when  you've  been  a  few  years  longer  in 
the  world,  you'll  find  out  that  it's  not  a 
bit  worth  while  to  vex  and  agitate  one's 
self  so  about  bitter  tongues.  Get  your 
hat  and  parasol  and  come  with  me. 
You're  a  darling,  if  you  did  <  speak  out 
in  meeting,'  like  the  old  woman  that 
didn't  intend  it." 

For  the  moment  Mrs.  Wolfgang  had 
been  fairly  cowed  into  silence  by  Leo- 
line's  impetuous  charge  upon  her,  but 
as  they  went  out  her  voice  was  heard — 
in  an  undertone,  however  —  denouncing 
the  insolence  of  upstart  misses. 


CHAPTER    XL. 
THROUGH  A   KEYHOLE. 

WHEN  Norah  returned  from  the  Mite, 
she  had  just  time  to  prepare  supper  be 
fore  Terence  came  in  from  the  farm. 
At  table  she  told  him  all  that  had  passed, 
and  she  observed  that  it  made  him  very 
grave.  When  the  dishes  were  washed  and 
the  children  out  at  play,  Terence  said, 
"An'  couldn't  I  tell  Mister  Sydenham 
mor'n  he  knows  about  Miss  Ethelridge  ?" 

"  An'  how  did  ye  come  to  know  any 
thing  about  a  lady  like  that  ?" 

"  Sure,  an'  wasn't  I  Cap'n  Halloran's 
groom  in  the  ould  country,  and  didn't 
she  come  to  his  rooms,  and  didn't  I  see 
her  there  ?" 

"  Did  she  know  ye,  Teddy,  when  ye 
took  Derry  and  Cathy  to  school  ?" 

"  Sorra  bit.  I  guess  she'd  a  knowed 
me  fast  enough  when  I  was  behind  the 
bar,  and  didn't  wear  no  burd  nor  mus- 
tashes.  But  me  that's  a  rough  fellow 
now,  with  me  face  all  hairy,  and  a  farm 
er's  coat  on — that's  another  thing.  Ye 
ought  to  ha'  seen  me  in  them  days,  in  the 
captain's  curricle,  wi'  them  black-legged 
bays,  and  a  heap  finer  dress  than  the 
captain's  own.  I  wouldn't  have  had  to 
coort  ye  nothin'  like  as  hard  as  I  did. 
Ye'd  have  took  to  me  right  off,  Norah, 
and  jist  dropped  into  me  arms." 

"  I  expec'  ye  thought,  them  times,  wi' 
the  lace  on  yer  coat  and  on  yer  hat,  and 
yer  shiny,  white-top  boots,  that  it  was 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


217 


the  girls'  place  to  ask  you  and  not  you 
them.  Set  ye  up  !  I  niver  could  abide 
impudence,  and  I  wouldn't  have  had  sich 
a  stuck-up  fellow  to  save  him.  But  what 
did  ye  know  about  Miss  Ethelridge  ?" 

"  It  isn't  Miss  Ethelridge — it's  Miss 
Talbot." 

"Well,  Miss  Talbot,  then.  Was  it 
good  or  bad  ye  knowed  about  her  ?" 

"It  was  bad  I  knowed  o'  the  master, 
and  good  I  knowed  about  her.  She's  a 
trump — she  is.  The  captain  wanted  to 
have  his  wicked  will  of  her,  but  she  was 
too  many  for  him." 

"  I'd  tell  Mr.  Sydenham  about  it  ef  I 
was  you,  Teddy." 

"  I'll  do  it,  this  blessed  night.  Haven't 
ye  got  some  butter  for  Miss  Leoline  ?" 

"  An'  isn't  there  two  pounds  and  a 
half  good,  that  I  churned  jist  afore  I 
went  to  that  Mite  ?" 

It  was  put  up  with  scrupulous  care, 
Pennsylvania-fashion,  in  a  snow-white 
napkin,  the  produce  of  Norah's  own 
spinning  and  weaving  and  bleaching  in 
her  maiden  days.  With  the  basket  on 
his  arm  Terence- trudged  to  Rosebank. 

When  Sydenham  admitted  him  to  his 
study  he  was  somewhat  embarrassed  : 

"  I  dunno'  ef  it's  the  right  thing  for 
me  to  be  troublin'  ye,  Mister  Sydenham. 
But  I  hearn  they  were  speaking  ill  o' 
the  schoolmistress,  and — and  I  knowed 
somethin'  about  her  myself  in  the  ould 
country." 

"  Get  yourself  a  chair,  Terence.  I 
take  an  interest  in  anything  that  relates 
to  Miss  Ethelridge." 

"  Thankee,  sir ;  that's  just  what  No- 
rah  tould  me." 

"  What  did  you  know  of  her  ?" 

"Ye  see,  Mister  Sydenham,  me  ould 
faither  had  a  chealin'  and  a  bit  garden- 
spot  on  Squire  Halloran's  place :  that 
was  in  Connaught.  The  squire,  he  had 
lots  and  lots  of  land,  and  he  had  a  son 
that  was  a  cap'n  in  the  army.  He  was 
a  wild  young  man,  was  master  ;  but  I 
didn't  never  think  he'd  have  been  half  as 
bad  as  he  got  to  be  ef  it  hadn't  been  for 
a  divil  of  a  black-coated  Frenchman  that 
put  him  up  to  all  sorts  o'  tricks.  The 
fellow  was  the  cap'n's  jintleman,  that 
waited  on  him  and  dressed  him  ;  and  I 


was  the  groom.  I  hated  that  French 
man.  His  name  was  Vealmong,  but  I 
think  they  spelled  it  Vileman  ;  and  he 
was  jist  right  named  at  that." 

"  Were  you  staying  in  London  ?" 

"  Near  St.  James' — yes.  I  think  it 
was  through  the  Frenchman  somehow — 
on  a  race-course  maybe — that  the  cap'n 
got  acquainted  with  a  jintleman  that  cut 
a  great  dash  and  was  a'most  as  wild  as 
master  was  —  Sir  Charles  Cunningem, 
they  called  him.  One  day  me  and  the 
master  went  to  his  house  and  took  two 
ladies  a-drivin'  in  the  Park  :  one  of  them 
was  Lady  Cunningem,  and  the  other  was 
Miss  Talbot :  I  think  she  was  a  cousin 
to  Sir  Charles.  I  had  a  good  look  at 
them  thin  ;  and  though  it  was  mor'n  a 
year  and  a  half  after  that,  I  knowed  Miss 
Talbot  in  a  minnit  when  the  cap'n 
brought  her  one  evenin'  to  his  rooms." 

"  Miss  Talbot  ?" 

"  That's  Miss  Ethelridge.  She  look 
ed  bewildered-like,  as  if  she  didn't  know 
where  she  was  or  what  she  was  doin'; 
and  master,  he  hurried  her  into  the  par 
lor  a'most  afore  we  had  time  to  see 
her.  Then  he  came  out  and  sent  the 
Frenchman  off  on  an  errand.  Thinks  I, 
there's  some  rascality  on  hand  ;  and  I 
slipped  into  the  cap'n's  bed-room,  that 
was  next  to  the  parlor,  wi'  a  door  be 
tween.  I  locked  the  door — the  lock 
went  very  easy — for  fear  he  might  come 
in  on  me,  and  I  got  sight  o'  them  through 
the  keyhole.  I  ain't  no  eavesdropper, 
Mister  Sydenham,  nor  niver  was  :  I'd 
scorn  sich  a  meanness  ;  but  I  knowed  it 
wasn't  fair  play  they  was  after,  and  I 
knowed  that  Vealmong  must  be  at  the 
bottom  of  it ;  an'  sure  enough  he  was. 
An'  I  kep'  a-thinkin'  a  young  thing  like 
that  ought  to  have  a  chance,  ef  so  be 
they  had  set  some  of  their  divil's  traps 
for  her." 

"  You're  a  good  fellow,  Terence." 

"  Sure,  an'  ef  it  had  been  me  own  sis 
ter  wouldn't  I  have  gone  down  on  me 
knees  to  anybody  that  would  'ave  gi'n 
her  a  helpin'  hand  ?" 

"  But  what  happened  ?" 

"It  was  sort  o'  curious,  Mister  Syd 
enham.  I  niver  jist  understood  it. 
Seemed  she  wasn't  herself  at  first  :  she 


218 


BEYOND    TP1E  BREAKERS. 


looked  stupid-like.  It  came  across  me 
maybe  he'd  had  her  somewhere  to  get 
soda  water  or  ice  cream,  or  somethin', 
and  drugged  it :  there  wasn't  no  wicked 
ness  that  Frenchman  couldn't  put  a  man 
up  to.  Any  way,  for  a  while  she  didn't 
hardly  look  able  to  speak.  The  cap'n, 
he  put  his  hands  up  to  her,  but  she  kep' 
him  off  all  she  could.  At  last,  says  she: 
*  Cap'n  Halloran,  ef  ye  keep  me  from 
goin'  back  to  me  cousin's,  I'll  alarm  the 
house  !'  Says  he,  '  Me  sarvants  is  too 
well  trained  for  that :  they  niver  come 
till  I  ring  the  bell !'  With  that  she 
made  a  spring  at  the  bell-rope,  but  the 
cap'n,  he  was  too  quick  for  her.  He  got 
her  be  the  hands  and  forced  her  back." 

"  Is  such  villainy  possible  ?"  broke  in 
Sydenham. 

"  Indade,  an'  it  is,"  resumed  the 
other  :  « it's  every  word  as  true  as  the 
blessed  Gospel.  The  cap'n,  he  says  to 
her  then,  'Ye  can  niver  go  home  no 
more.  Ye  came  here  wi'  me  alone  and 
o'  yer  own  accord.'  " 

"  '  O'  me  own  accord  ?'  says  she.  '  O' 
me  own  accord  ?  How  dar'  ye  say  that  ?' 

"  '  Me  sarvants  saw  ye  come  in,'  says 
he,  as  cool  as  ye  like  :  <  I  can  get  them 
to  witness  that  no  force  was  used.  Ye  Ye 
disgraced  for  ever.  Ye've  played  me 
fast  and  loose,  Miss  Talbot,  long  enough : 
ye're  in  me  power  now.  But  I'm  a  jin- 
tleman.  I'll  send  for  another  clergy 
man,  ef  ye'll  promise  not  for  to  go  to 
insult  him,  like  ye  did  the  last  I  got  ye.' 
The  poor  thing  sunk  down  on  a  sofa, 
and  I  couldn't  hear  what  she  said.  But 
it  sort  o'  stirred  him  up,  and  says  he  : 
<  It's  yer  only  chance  to  go  from  here 
an  honest  woman.'  With  that  she  sprung 
up  and  looked  all  round  her  like  a  wild 
thing.  '  Ye  needn't  look,'  says  he  :  *  the 
door's  locked.'  And  thin  he  sprung  to 
the  chamber  door  and  tried  it.  <  Lucky  !' 
said  he:  'that's  locked  too.'  She  ran 
to  the  window,  but  he  snapped  the  spring 
over  it,  and  that  was  so  high  it  was  out 
of  her  reach.  Then  she  seemed  like  she 
gi'n  it  up,  walkin'  away,  slow  and  des 
perate-like,  to  the  fire-place.  There,  on 
the  mantelpiece,  bless  the  luck !  was 
lyin'  a  dirk — the  prettiest  little  thing  ye 
ever  seed,  Mr.  Sydenham — " 


"  Thank  God  !"  his  auditor  ejaculated. 

«  It  was  in  a  blue  velvet  sheath,  and 
when  the  cap'n  went  on  some  o'  his 
wild  sprees  o'  nights  he  mostly  took  it 
along.  She  had  it  in  her  hand  in  a  mo 
ment :  I  seed  the  blade  flash  in  the  light. 
Then  she  was  as  quiet  as  if  she'd  bin  in 
her  own  drawin'-room.  It  was  grand  to 
see,  Mr.  Sydenham.  The  cap'n,  he  was 
a-goin'  up  to  her,  but  I  think  she  scared 
him — and  he  wasn't  no  coward,  naither. 
She  didn't  say  a  single  word,  but  she 
raised  her  arm  as  steady  as  if  it  had 
been  a  fan  she  was  holding  and  I  guess 
he  saw  in  her  eyes  what  would  come 
next.  Anyhow,  he  started  back,  and 
says  he :  '  For  God's  sake,  Miss  Tal 
bot  !'  She  jist  lowered  the  dirk  a  little, 
and  says  she,  soft-like,  as  if  she'd  been 
a-speakin'  to  some  nice  young  man  at  a 
party  :  <  For  your  sake,  Cap'n  Halloran. 
I  don't  think  yer  soul's  ready  to  appear 
afore  its  Maker ;  but  it  might  ha'  bin 
there  by  this  ef  ye'd  come  one  step 
nearer.  Ye  expect  a  life  o'  pleasure,  I 
suppose,  and  ye  wouldn't  like  to  have  it 
cut  short  to-night.  Take  care!'  Mr. 
Sydenham,  I  never  heerd  soft  words  cut 
so  since  me  mother  bore  me.  Thin  I 
saw  her  touch  the  point  of  the  dirk,  and 
there  was  blood  on  her  finger  when  she 
drew  it  away.  But  she  sort  o'  laughed, 
and  she  said  to  him,  jist  as  easy  as  if 
she'd  been  talkin'  uv  his  white  vest : 
'  It's  lucky  the  gallants,  now-a-days,  don't 
wear  no  shirts  o'  mail  anaith  their  doub 
lets.  Nothin'  less'll  turn  that  edge.' 
Ye  better  believe,  Mr.  Sydenham,  she 
had  made  him  feel  it  was  dead  earnest." 

"  Well  ?"  cried  Sydenham,  as  Terence 
paused  in  his  story. 

"  I  saw  the  cap'n  was  a'most  at  his 
wits'  end.  He  walked  back  and  forth, 
and  I  heard  him  cussin'  to  hisself.  One 
time,  when  he  came  close  to  the  door  I 
was  at,  he  said  somethin'  about  taming 
wild  birds  in  a  cage.  Then  he  made  for 
the  other  door  to  unlock  it.  And  didn't 
I  make  tracks  for  the  street  door,  to  be 
ready  for  him  ?  When  he  came  along, 
says  he:  'Teddy,  don't  let  nobody  in 
but  Vealmong,  ef  ye  vally  yer  place.' 
Then  he  turned  as  he  was  goin'  out  and 
says  he  to  me  :  « That  poor  lady  in  the 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


219 


parlor  is  clane  out  of  her  mind.  I'm 
goin'  for  the  doctor.  Nobody  must  go 
near  her  or  say  a  word  to  her.  She's 
dangerous  when  she  gits  in  them  fits.' 

«  I  waited  till  I  knowed  he  must  be 
out  o'  sight,  and  thin  I  jist  quietly  un 
locked  the  bed-room  door.  She  was 
standin'  a-gazin'  at  the  fire  ;  and  says  I, 
«  Miss  Talbot,  ef  so  be  ye  want  to  go  to 
yer  own  folks,  it's  me  that'll  help  ye 
away.'  Oh,  Mr.  Sydenham,  I  niver  was 
so  beshamed  in  all  me  life.  The  poor, 
sweet  cratur  went  down  on  her  knees  to 
me,  that  wasn't  nothin'  mor'n  a  sarvant, 
and  jined  her  hands,  and  the  tears  was 
in  her  eyes  ;  and  when  she  said,  '  God 
bless  ye  !'  I  'most  cried  meself.  But  it 
wasn't  no  time  for  cryin',  for  the  cap'n, 
he  might  come  back  any  minit.  So  I 
took  her  down  the  back  stairs  and  let 
her  out  at  the  sarvants'  door,  and  says  I : 
'  An'  is  it  a  cab  ye'd  be  needin',  miss  ?' 
for  I  wanted  to  see  her  safe  out  of  his 
sight.  But  says  she,  'Ye  mustn't  go 
for  a  cab.  Ye  may  be  missed,  and  I 
don't  want  nobody  to  lose  his  place  for 
me.  I'll  find  my  way.'  She  made  me 
take  a  sovereign  from  her,  and  I  watched 
her  all  the  way  down  the  street  ;  but 
she  didn't  take  the  road  to  Sir  Charles', 
and  I  hearn  she  never  got  there." 

"  Did  the  captain,"  asked  Sydenham, 
« suspect  that  you  had  let  Miss  Talbot 
out  ?" 

"Jist  at  first — yes.  He  axed,  as  mad 
as  fire,  'Who  went  and  unlocked  that 
bed-room  door  ?' 

'"The  Divil,  he  knows,'  says  I.  And 
sure  that  wasn't  no  lie,  Mr.  Sydenham, 
for  there's  not  a  bit  o'  doubt  he  was 
helpin'  the  cap'n  and  knowed  all  about 
it.  But  master,  he  looked  hard  at  me, 
and  says  he,  *  I'm  thinkin'  there's  some 
body  else  knows  it,  forbye  the  Divil.' 

" '  True  for  you,  cap'n,'  says  I  ;  '  for 
the  lady  must  ha'  knowed  it  too.  May 
be  she  pried  the  door  open  wi'  a  knife  or 
somethin'  ?'  The  cap'n,  he  gin  a  look  at 
the  mantel,  and  there  was  no  dirk  there ; 
and  thin  he  went  to  the  door  and  shot 
the  bolt,  and  looked  at  it  keerfully. 

"  '  By  God,'  said  he,  '  it's  true  !  She's 
the  divil.' 

"  Now  ye  see,  Mr.  Sydenham,  jist  as 


soon  as  I'd  let  the  lady  out,  I  went  up 
to  the  bed-room,  an'  I  took  a  strong, 
sharp  knife,  and  I  dented  and  scratched 
the  door-bolt  till  a  man  would  ha'  sworn 
somebody  had  been  tamperin'  wi'  the 
thing.  And  that  was  the  way  the  cap'n, 
he  got  diated.  But  two  days  after,  when 
I  hearn  the  poor  young  cratur  was  lost, 
I  couldn't  nohow  keep  me  tongue  in  me 
head  afore  that  Vealmong,  an'  I  tould 
him  to  his  face  it  was  him  that  was  the 
head  divil  o'  the  whole  villainy.  An'  he 
was  hoppin'  mad,  and  got  the  cap'n  to 
pay  me  off.  But  the  black  varmint  did 
me  a  good  turn,  for  all,  for  I  might  ha' 
stayed  in  the  ould  country  an'  slaved 
till  me  fingers  was  worn  to  the  stumps 
an'  me  bones  was  old  and  stiff,  and  niver 
had  no  sich  lovely  place  to  live  in,  nor 
no  sich  nice  jintleman  to  work  for  as 
jist  yerself,  Mr.  Sydenham." 

"You've  been  to  Blarney  Castle, 
haven't  you,  Terence  ?"  asked  Syden 
ham,  smiling. 

"  An'  is  it  at  the  Blarney-stone  ye 
think  I  larnt  to  tell  the  truth,  Mr.  Syd 
enham  ?  Sure,  I  niver  was  in  county 
Cork,  at  all,  at  all.  An',  Mr.  Sydenham, 
don't  ye  think  yerself  that's  a  lovely 
place,  wi'  the  graveyard  quite  convanient, 
and  all  the  white  marble  shinin'  through 
the  trees  up  there,  and  the  waterfall 
singin'  a'most  like  the  sea,  and  the  creek 
for  Derry  to  sail  his  boat  on  ?  And 
thin,  doesn't  the  whole  country-side  know 
what  a  jintleman  ye  are,  Mr.  Sydenham, 
and  all  that  ye've  done  for  them  as  needs 
it,  Mr.  Sydenham  —  let  alone  them  as 
doesn't?  That's  naither  new  nor  strange." 

"Well,  you  shall  have  it  your  own 
way,"  said  Sydenham,  laughing.  "  I'm 
glad  you  like  the  place,  and  I'm  well  sat 
isfied  with  the  way  you  manage  it.  As 
for  Norah's  butter,  it  can't  be  surpassed." 

"  Thin,  if  ye're  continted,  so  is  me  and 
Norah  ;  and  I  hope  we'll  live  long  to 
serve  yer  honor  and  Miss  Leoline." 

"  It  would  have  been  a  pity  and  a 
shame,"  thought  Sydenham,  as  Terence 
took  his  leave,  "  if  that  fine  young  fel 
low  had  died  in  a  prison."  Then  his 
thoughts  reverted  to  the  strange  story 
he  had  heard.  Poor  Ellinor !  Brave 
Ellinor  ! 


220 


BETOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


Later  in  the  evening,  another  visitor 
came  —  Mr.  Harper — to  see  Sydenham 
as  Celia's  guardian.  He  had  been  to 
Dr.  Meyrac's,  where  he  met  Ethan,  and 
where  they  had  been  talking  over  Celia's 
fortunes,  and  speaking  of  the  possibility 
that  Mr.  Pembroke  might  have  made  a 
will,  which  had  been  suppressed.  Then 
Ethan  had  said  the  only  chance  of  get 
ting  at  it  was  to  find  one  or  other  of 
the  subscribing  witnesses.  As  Harper 
walked  home,  Betty  Carson's  story  about 
signing  a  paper  for  Mr.  Pembroke  came 
suddenly  to  his  mind :  so  he  continued 
his  walk  to  Rosebank  and  laid  the  mat 
ter  before  Sydenham. 

"  I  am  greatly  indebted  to  you,"  said 
the  latter.  "  This  may  be  important.  I 
shall  see  Creighton  about  it  to-morrow 
morning." 

He  did  so.  Creighton  proposed  that 
they  should  go  to  Betty's  at  once.  She 
told  them,  word  for  word,  what  she  had 
told  Harper. 

"  Did  Mr.  Pembroke  say  anything 
else,  except  that  he  wished  you  to  wit 
ness  the  paper  ?"  asked  Creighton. 

"  Not  as  I  remember,  sir." 

"  You  don't  know  what  sort  of  paper 
it  was  ?" 

"  No,  sir  ;  only  the  sheets  was  long. 
I  can't  write  nothin'  forbye  me  name  ; 
nor  I  can't  read  writin'." 

"  Who  was  in  the  room  at  the  time  ? 
— Mrs.  Pembroke  ?" 

"No,  sir.  It  was  in  Mr.  Pembroke's 
room  up  stairs.  Mrs.  Pembroke  was 
givin'  Miss  Celia  a  lesson  in  the  parlor 
below.  There  was  nobody  but  us  and 
Mr.  Cranstoun  in  the  room." 

"  How  did  you  happen  to  be  there  ?" 

"  Mr.  Cranstoun  met  me  at  the  front 
door,  and  says  he :  <  Betty,  Mr.  Pem 
broke  wants  to  see  ye  about  the  starchin' 
of  them  shirts  o'  his'n  !'  So  I  went  up." 

"  Did  Mr.  Cranstoun  know  you  could 
write  your  name  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir.  He  axed  me  wance  to  sign 
a  note  along  wi'  Matthew — that's  me  hus 
band  that  was — and  says  I,  <  I  can  sign  me 
name,  and  I  guess  it's  all  right,  Mr.  Cran 
stoun,  but  I  can't  read  a  word  of  it.'  It 
wasn't  all  right,  though,  Mr  Creighton, 
for  I  had  that  note  to  pay  twice." 


"  Did  Cranstoun  witness  that  paper 
of  Mr.  Pembroke's,  too  ?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Did  Mr.  Pembroke  keep  the  paper 
and  put  it  away  ?" 

Betty  considered  a  little  :  "  Now  I 
think  of  it,  sir,  we  heerd  Mrs.  Pembroke 
on  the  stairs  sayin'  somethin'  to  Miss 
Celia  :  and  Mr.  Cranstoun,  he  looked  at 
Mr.  Pembroke,  and  says  Mr.  Pembroke, 
hasty-like,  <  Take  it,  Cranstoun  ;'  and  he 
grabbed  it  and  put  it  under  his  coat,  and 
buttoned  his  coat  up  ;  and  I  remember 
I  wondered  what  it  could  be  that  Mrs. 
Pembroke  wasn't  to  see." 

"  When  was  this  ?" 

"  Well,  sir,  it  was  in  winter — I  expect 
three  or  four  weeks  afore  Mr.  Pembroke 
died." 

"  Was  he  ill  at  that  time  ?" 

"  Not  to  say  very  ill,  sir,  but  he  was 
confined  to  his  room,  and  his  wife  was 
desperate  uneasy  about  him." 

"  Now,  Betty,  I  want  you  to  consider. 
Do  you  think  it  was  Mr.  Pembroke's 
will  that  you  witnessed  ?" 

"  Well,  now,"  said  Betty,  with  a  start, 
"in  course  it  was.  And  wasn't  I  stupid 
not  to  think  of  that  before?  Yes,  Mr. 
Creighton,  sure  enough,  an'  it  was  his 
will  he  had  made  ;  and  he  didn't  want 
his  wife  to  see  it,  for  fear  she'd  think  he 
was  goin'  to  die  right  off.  Sich  a  good, 
considerate  man  as  he  was  !" 

"  But  did  he  say  it  was  his  will  ?" 

"  I  guess  he  must  have,  Mr.  Creigh* 
ton.  What  else  could  it  be,  and  he  sick 
and  soon  to  die  ?  It  was  his  will,  sure, 
and  nothin'  less.  I  could  a'most  take 
my  Bible  oath  on  that." 

That  was  all  they  could  get.  After 
they  left  the  house,  "  It's  no  use,"  said 
Creighton  to  Sydenham.  "  It's  a  lost 
ball.  It  would  be  the  easiest  thing  in 
the  world  to  persuade  that  old  woman 
that  Mr.  Pembroke  told  her  it  was  his 
will  she  was  asked  to  witness.  I'd  only 
have  to  suggest  just  what  he  was  likely 
to  say,  and  repeat  that  three  or  four 
days,  and  stick  to  it  that  I  was  quite 
sure  he  must  have  told  her,  because  it 
was  his  duty  to  tell  her,  ?nd  because  he 
wasn't  a  man  to  neglect  his  duty.  I 
haven't  any  doubt  she  w(  uld  swear  to  it 


BEYOND    THE   BREAKERS. 


221 


conscientiously.  But  it  would  be  a  lie. 
He  didn't  tell  her.  One  could  see  that  by 
her  surprise  when  I  suggested  it.  The 
idea  never  had  been  in  her  mind  before." 

"  But  you  have  no  doubt  it  was  the 
will  ?" 

"  Not  any.  Observe  the  facts.  Cran- 
stoun  selects  Betty  because  he  knows 
that,  though  she  can  sign  her  name,  she 
cannot  read  manuscript.  He  watches 
her  arrival,  meets  her  as  she  comes 
in,  makes  an  excuse  to  get  her  to  Mr. 
Pembroke's  room.  When  they  hear 
Mrs.  Pembroke  coming,  the  husband 
bids  Cranstoun  take  the  paper,  and  he 
conceals  it.  I  am  satisfied  it  was  the 
will,  and  equally  satisfied  that  we  shall 
never  be  able  to  prove  that  a  will  was 
made  at  all.  Cranstoun  has  burned  it 
long  ago — unless,  indeed,"  he  added  after 
a  pause,  "  the  rascal  may  have  laid  it  by 
as  a  card  which,  some  clay  or  other,  if 
the  game  goes  against  him,  he  may  play 
with  the  chance  of  winning  a  trick." 

They  walked  on  for  some  time  in 
silence,  when  Mr.  Creighton  suddenly 
stopped  and  turned  to  his  companion  : 
"  No,  Mr.  Sydenham  :  that  will  wasn't 
burnt.  Cranstoun  was  sure  to  preserve 
it — to  be  used,  in  case  of  accident,  in 
the  event  that  Miss  Pembroke  accepted 
him — as  no  doubt  the  scoundrel  dared 
to  presume  she  would — as  her  husband. 
But,  so  far  as  we  are  concerned,  it  might 
as  well  have  been  burnt  years  ago,  for  I 
don't  see  the  smallest  chance  of  getting 
at  it." 

So  that  hope  died  out. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

THE  MILLER'S  DAUGHTER. 

"  Hear,  Father — hear  and  aid  1 
If  I  have  loved  too  well,  if  I  have  shed, 
In  my  vain  fondness,  o'er  a  human  head, 

Gifts  on  Thy  shrine,  O  God,  more  fitly  laid — 

"  If  I  have  sought  to  live 
But  in  one  light,  and  made  a  mortal  eye 
The  lonely  star  of  my  idolatry — 

Thou,  that  art  Love,  oh  pity  and  forgive  !" 

HEMANS. 

AN  unwonted  excitement  pervaded 
Chiskauga.  News  had  arrived,  early 
one  morning,  that  Tyler's  mill,  dwelling- 


house  and  all  the  outbuildings  were 
burnt  to  the  ground  ;  that  the  miller  and 
his  foreman  Goddart  had  perished  in  the 
flames  ;  and  that  they  didn't  know  what 
had  become  of  the  daughter.  Various 
corrections  gradually  modified  this  re 
port,  until,  by  midday,  the  most  incor 
rigible  newsmongers  were  fain  to  admit 
that  it  was  the  mill  only  that  was  burnt, 
and  that  nobody  was  hurt  except  Hiram 
Goddart,  whose  hands  had  been  some 
what  scorched  in  a  fruitless  attempt  to 
drag  out  part  of  the  personal  property. 

Even  this  last  version  of  the  story, 
however,  needed  correction.  The  miller 
had,  indeed,  received  no  personal  injury 
at  the  fire  ;  yet  before  two  days  had 
passed  his  daughter  began  to  fear  that 
worse  had  befallen  him. 

She  slept  in  the  room  next  to  her 
father's,  and,  still  anxious  about  him,  her 
sleep,  on  the  night  of  the  fire,  had  been 
unquiet  and  easily  disturbed.  A  flicker 
ing  light  shining  through  her  chamber 
window  had  awakened  her.  She  went 
out  as  quietly  as  possible,  roused  God- 
dart,  who  alarmed  the  other  hands  ;  and 
by  great  exertions  they  succeeded,  with 
in  half  an  hour,  in  checking  the  flames. 
It  was  for  the  moment  only,  however  : 
they  soon  broke  out  afresh,  and  spread 
so  fast  that  it  became  evident  the  build 
ing  (a  weatherboarded  frame,  with  shin 
gle  roof)  must  go. 

Then  Ellen  bethought  her  of  her 
father.  Since  the  attempt  he  had  made, 
one  night,  to  escape  from  his  bed-room, 
they  had  secured  both  the  windows  by- 
stout  bars  outside,  across  the  Venetian 
shutters,  besides  locking  the  outside 
door.  There  was  a  second  door,  com 
municating  with  Ellen's  room,  so  that  he 
could  knock  in  case  he  wanted  anything 
during  the  night,  but  that  also  she  locked 
when  she  retired  to  rest. 

When  she  unlocked  this  door  on  her 
return  from  the  fire,  she  was  terribly 
frightened.  The  glass  in  both  the  win 
dows  was  shattered,  a  chair  broken  to 
fragments  lay  on  the  floor,  and  beside  it 
her  father,  apparently  insensible.  Ap 
proaching  with  the  candle,  she  perceived 
stains  of  blood  on  the  floor.  Then  she 
came  very  near  fainting,  but  love  over- 


222 


BEYOND    THE   BREAKERS. 


came  fear ;  and  when,  with  trembling 
hands  and  tear-dimmed  eyes,  she  had 
examined  his  condition,  she  became  sat 
isfied  that  the  blood  came  only  from  his 
hands,  which  had  been  cut  in  several 
places,  apparently  by  the  glass,  in  his 
vain  endeavors  to  force  the  windows. 
The  door  also  bore  the  marks  of  heavy 
blows,  dealt  with  the  stout  wooden  chair, 
which  had  evidently  gone  to  pieces  in 
his  hands. 

She  dragged  a  mattress  from  the  bed, 
and  contrived  to  place  him  on  it.  When 
she  had  sprinkled  water  on  his  face  he 
revived,  and  his  first  words  were  :  "  You 
can't  swim,  Nell,  but  I  can  save  you  : 
I  was  once  a  capital  swimmer.  Come  !" 
and  he  tried  to  rise,  but  fell  back  pow 
erless. 

"  Father  dear,"  said  Ellen,  "  you  are 
at  home.  This  is  your  own  room.  See  !" 

"But  the  fire,  Nelly,  the  fire  !  D'ye 
think  I  can't  see  through  these  cursed 
shutters,  if  they  are  barred  ?  The  boat 
is  on  fire.  Don't  I  hear  the  flames 
crackling  ?  Quick  !" 

"  Father,  father,  hear  what  I  tell  you. 
There's  no  steamboat.  The  mill's  on 
fire — that's  true  ;  but  the  wind's  north 
east,  and  Hiram  says  there's  no  more 
chance  of  the  fire  catching  this  house 
than  if  it  were  a  mile  off.  I'm  afraid 
the  mill's  gone,  past  saving:  I'm  very 
sorry  for  that.  But  you're  safe,  father, 
and  we've  a  house  still  over  our  heads. 
God  be  thanked  for  that !" 

If  he  had  been  able  to  rise,  she 
couldn't  have  kept  him  there,  but  his 
desperate  exertions  to  escape  by  door 
or  window  had  completely  exhausted 
him.  Gradually,  by  dint  of  iteration, 
she  appeased  him  :  and  when  Goddart 
soon  after  came  in  and  reported  that 
the  mill  could  not  be  saved,  it  seemed 
to  relieve  him,  and  the  delusion  grad 
ually  vanished. 

"  So  ye  won't  get  burnt  nor  drowned, 
ny  little  Nell.  Let  the  gear  go  !  Kiss 
me,  my  child." 

The  wounds  on  his  hands  were  slight ; 
and  when  Ellen  had  dressed  them,  and 
they  had  lifted  him  to  bed  again,  he 
sank  into  a  heavy  sleep. 

It  had  been  a  great  shock.    The  good 


that  Harper  did  had  been  undone.  At 
a  time  when  the  miller's  mind  had  been 
slowly  regaining  its  tone,  all  the  horrors 
of  that  dreadful  night  on  Lake  Erie  had 
come  back  on  him  in  full  force.  And 
with  these  came  back  the  fancy  that  God 
had  sent  him  a  premonition  of  death. 
The  logic  of  Preacher  Larrabee's  story 
was  clear,  indeed,  but  nerves  already 
shattered  and  terribly  shaken  by  a  sec 
ond  agitation  beclouded  logical  deduc 
tions.  The  father,  tender  of  his  daugh 
ter's  feelings,  succeeded,  however,  in 
concealing  from  her  this  superstitious 
relapse. 

Well  did  Ellen  merit  the  old  man's 
regardful  care.  Weak  in  her  judgments 
because  of  inexperience  and  imperfect 
culture,  the  girl  had  a  strength  such  as 
few  strong  men  have,  deep-rooted  in  her 
affections  —  a  dangerous  strength  in  a 
world  like  this.  Imprudence  to  any  ex 
tent  she  might  commit,  but  one  act  of 
deliberate  selfishness,  never. 

Her  love  for  Mowbray  was  an  idol 
atry,  but  because  it  was  not  a  selfish 
idolatry,  so  neither  was  it  exclusive. 
Never  since  her  tiny  arms  were  first 
stretched  to  the  proud  father  in  infant 
recognition  had  she  loved  that  father  as 
now — all  the  more  warmly  and  devotedly 
because  of  the  warmth  and  devotion  of 
her  love  for  another.  The  angel  that 
had  stirred  the  depths  of  that  young 
heart  was  of  the  holiest  in  Heaven's 
host.  Duty  was  more  sacred  now,  grat 
itude  more  tender,  good-will  to  all  men 
felt  with  livelier  glow.  The  waters  from 
that  mystic  fount,  motionless  till  the 
angel  came,  now  irrigated  with  freshen 
ing  influence  all  her  life's  little  domain. 

When  a  fortnight  had  passed,  and  the 
miller  was  still  unable  to  sit  up  more 
than  two  or  three  hours  each  day,  vigil 
and  anxiety  began  to  tell  on  the  poor 

girl- 

"  Ellen,"  the  father  said  one  day, 
"you'll  be  sick  yourself  if  you  wait  on 
me  so  much.  You  need  the  fresh  air. 
Take  Joe  :  he's  quiet  to  ride,  and  we 
don't  need  him  now.  Willie  can  stay 
by  me,  if  you're  uneasy  about  leaving 
me  alone." 

When  she  came  to  see  how  he  was 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


223 


before  she  set  out  on  her  ride,  she  kiss 
ed  him,  saying  :  "  I  promise  you  never 
to  do  anything  to  make  you  sorry  again. 
You  know  I  won't.  Don't  you,  father?" 
«  I  know  you're  an  old  man's  darling, 
Nell,  and  as  good  as  gold.  I'd  let  you 
do  anything — anything  in  this  world  that 
I  thought  would  make  you  happy.  But 
to  keep  company  with  a  young  man  that 
— that  never  asked  you  to  marry  him — 
that  would  make  you  miserable,  Nelly — 
miserable,  mayhap,  as  long  as  you  live. 
That's  all  I'm  afraid  of:  I  want  you 
never  to  do  that." 

"  I  never  will."  And  there  she  stop 
ped,  on  the  very  point  of  telling  him  that 
Mowbray  and  she  were  engaged.  But, 
as  once  before,  she  put  it  off  with  the 
thought,  "  When  he's  better  and  strong 
er."  And  she  only  repeated,  "  I  never, 
never  will." 

«  I  know  you  won't,  Nelly.  God  for 
ever  bless  and  protect  you,  dear  child  !" 
Thenceforth  Ellen  usually  rode  out 
two  or  three  afternoons  in  the  week. 
Of  course,  Mowbray  got  to  know  it,  and 
of  course  he  sought  to  meet  his  prom 
ised  wife. 

To  Mowbray's  questions,  repeated 
each  time  they  met,  as  to  her  father's 
condition,  she  returned  desponding  an 
swers.  His  brow  clouded — Ellen  thought 
from  sympathy.  One  day  he  said,  "  Ellen 
clear,  have  you  ever  told  your  father  that 
we're  engaged  ?" 

«  I  was  afraid,  he's  so  weak." 
"  But  we  couldn't  marry  without  tell 
ing  him." 
"  Marry  ?" 

"  Isn't  a  girl  that's  past  nineteen  old 
enough  to  marry  ?" 

"  How  can  we  be  married  and  father 
so  ill  ?" 

"  I    don't   see    what's   to    prevent    it. 
He  might  be  ill  for  months  or  years." 
"You  wouldn't  like,  Mr.  Mowbray — " 
"  Evelyn,  dear  Ellen." 
"  Evelyn" — hesitating  and  blushing — 
"  you  wouldn't  like  your  wife  to  spend 
half  her  time  nursing  a  sick  father." 

He  would  have  controlled  his  coun 
tenance  had  he  been  able.  Ellen  read 
its  expression  and  added,  "You  see  it 
wouldn't  do." 


"Why  couldn't  we  have  a  careful 
nurse  for  him  ?  You  could  go  and  see 
him  when  you  chose." 

"  Oh,  Evelyn,  how  can  you  ?" — voice 
trembling  and  tears  springing  to  her 
eyes.  "  God  himself  couldn't  love  me 
if  I  forsook  father." 

"  The  Bible  says  a  man  shall  leave 
father  and  mother  and  cleave  to  his  wife." 
"  Oh  don't,  don't !  He  has  nothing 
left  but  me.  It's  fourteen  years  since 
mother  died :  he  has  never  said  one 
angry  word  to  me  since  then,  not  even — " 
it  flashed  over  her  that  it  wouldn't  do  to 
talk  of  that.  "  I've  often  vexed  him, 
poor  father  !  I've  been  thoughtless  and 
careless,  and  he's  been  so  good  !  I 
think  he  always  felt  I  had  no  mother, 
and  couldn't  bear  to  thwart  me  or  deny 
me  anything.  If  you  only  knew,  Eve 
lyn  !  I'm  sure  the  Bible  never  meant 
that  a  girl  like  me,  that  used  'most  to 
forget  her  mother  was  gone — he  nursed 
and  petted  and  loved  me  so  —  it  never 
could  mean  that  I  was  to  go  and  leave 
him  on  his  sick  bed  now.  And  he's  so 
weak  and  helpless  !  If  you  were  to  see 
him,  Evelyn  !  His  hair's  as  white  as 
snow.  He's  such  an  old  man  now  !" 

She  said  it  plaintively,  dreamily — 
pausing.  Then,  with  sudden  impulse, 
«  I  won't  leave  him  !"  Mowbray  started, 
and  something  in  his  face  made  her 
add,  "  Dear,  dear  Evelyn,  I  can't." 

"  Of  course  you  must  do  as  you 
please,  Ellen." 

"  As  I  please  ?  You  think  I  don't 
love  you  ?" 

«  Not  as  well  as  you  love  your  father, 
it  seems." 

Ellen  wept  like  a  child.  Mowbray 
tried  to  soothe  her  :  "  I  know  you  love 
me,  dear  Ellen  :  I  didn't  mean  that  I 
doubted  your  love."  He  would  have 
been  a  wretch  if  he  had  doubted  it  under 
the  look  of  those  sad,  reproachful  eyes. 

All  she  said,  as  Mowbray  assisted  her 
in  mounting  her  horse,  was  :  "  He  would 
die  if  I  were  to  leave  him." 

During  the  long  summer  afternoons 
Tyler  usually  lay  in  a  lethargic  state. 
Very,  very  mournful  thoughts  filled  the 
silent  hours  that  Ellen  spent  by  his  bed 
side.  Never  for  a  moment  did  she  re- 


224 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


pent  her  resolution.  «  He  shall  not  die 
if  I  can  save  him  :"  that  was  her  one 
thought  as  to  her  father.  Yet  she  made 
to  herself  a  sort  of  reproach,  pitying  and 
excusing  her  lover. 

"  It's  not  his  fault" — such  were  the 
thoughts  that  swept  over  her  solitude — 
"•  it's  very  natural  he  should  feel  put  out 
about  it.  What  have  I  ever  done  for 
him  except  to  love  him  ? — and  I  couldn't 
help  that.  He  makes  all  the  sacrifices. 
Don't  I  know  I'm  no  fit  match  for  him  ? 
Couldn't  he  marry  the  best  lady  in  the 
land  ?  Then  we're  so  much  poorer  now 
than  when  he  asked  me :  all  the  ma 
chinery  burnt  on  the  boat,  the  mill  gone 
too  ;  yet  he  never  said  the  first  word 
about  it.  And  then  that  talk  of  the  vil 
lage  !  When  others  left  me  and  insulted 
me,  he  was  always  the  same.  And  now, 
the  only  thing  he  ever  asked  me  I  had 
to  refuse  him.  Poor  Evelyn  !  I  know 
he  must  think  I  don't  care  for  him  as  he 
cares  for  me.  If  he  could  only  look  into 
my  heart !" 

Then  she  began  to  think,  could  she 
ever  do  anything — make  any  sacrifice — 
for  him  to  prove  her  love  ?  She  was 
romantic  in  her  way,  this  simple  miller's 
daughter  ;  and  she  felt  that  if  her  father 
no  longer  needed  her  it  would  be  noth 
ing  to  risk  her  life  or  lose  it  for  Evelyn ; 
but  how  could  he  ever  know  that?  It 
was  only  in  novels  that  lovers  had  a 
chance  to  give  their  lives  for  one  another. 

He  had  seemed  to  wish  that  she  should 
tell  her  father  of  their  engagement.  She 
could  do  that,  at  least.  So  one  day  she 
did,  adding,  «  I  can  live  without  him  as 
long  as  I've  you,  father  ;  and  may  God 
forsake  me  if  I  leave  you  till  I  see  that 
you  don't  need  me  !  I  told  him  I  never 
would.  But  if  you — if  you  go  to  mother 
and  I  am  left  here — I  shall  want  to  die 
too  unless  I'm  his  wife.  I  love  him  so, 
and  he's  so  good,  father  —  you  don't 
know." 

It  was  another  shock,  though  he  strove 
to  conceal  that  from  his  daughter.  Still, 
he  received  the  news  with  mixed  feelings. 
The  presentiment  of  death  had  been 
gaining  on  him  ;  and  who  was  to  pro 
tect  the  orphan  when  he  was  gone  ?  He 
gazed  on  that  sweet,  sad  face — felt  that 


the  heart  of  love  and  trust  that  spoke 
from  it  was  in  the  keeping  of  another 
past  recalling  ;  and  the  thought  came  to 
him :  « Nobody  but  a  mean  coward 
would  injure  her  ;  and  the  proud  peat, 
with  all  his  uppish  ways,  is  no  coward. 
And  then  he  has  made  up  his  mind  to 
marry  the  miller's  daughter.  Anybody 
might  be  proud  of  Nelly.  Maybe  he 
•will."  So  the  kind  old  man,  thinking 
how  soon  he  might  be  where  he  could 
never  show  earthly  kindness  more,  could 
not  find  it  in  his  heart  to  say  no  to  his 
child's  love. 

One  only  condition  he  attached  to  his 
consent:  "It's  best  you  should  both 
have  time  to  know  your  own  minds. 
You're  not  twenty  yet,  Nell.  In  a  little 
more  than  a  year  you'll  be  of  age.  By 
that  time  either  this  useless  father  of 
yours  will  be  well  again  and  able  to 
spare  you,  or  else — " 

Ellen  would  not  let  him  go  on.  She 
had  been  touched  to  the  heart  by  his 
prompt  consent :  it  was  a  load  taken  off 
her  mind  ;  and  it  was  with  a  gush  of 
joy  and  gratitude  she  said  : 

"  You're  going  to  get  well,  father : 
I'm  sure  you  are.  But  come  what  will, 
I  take  God  to  witness  that  I  will  not 
marry  Evelyn  Mowbray  till  I  am  twenty- 
one  years  old.  And  if  I  ever  do  marry 
him,  I'll  come  and  see  you  every  day  : 
he  said  I  might." 

No  concealment  from  her  father  now: 
it  lightened  Ellen's  heart ;  but  her 
father's,  alas  ! — though  the  girl  knew  it 
not — was  loaded  down  with  one  grief  the 
more.  How  could  he  have  confidence 
in  Mowbray  ? 

Accumulating  burdens  were  becoming 
too  much  for  the  old  man's  waning 
strength.  Before  the  fatal  journey  to 
Buffalo  he  had  fortitude,  courage  to  meet 
any  reverse  of  fortune.  He  had  escaped 
from  that  burning  horror — one  of  seven 
who  had  made  their  own  way  to  shore. 
But  he  had  escaped,  as  soldiers  often  do 
from  the  dangers  of  a  hundred  fields,  to 
return  home  broken-down,  unmanned, 
health  and  hope  and  energy  gone. 

The  lethargic  symptoms  increased. 
An  hour  or  two  a  day  was  as  much  as 
he  could  bear  to  sit  up.  Ellen  became 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


225 


thoroughly  alarmed,  and  rode  into  town 
for  Dr.  Meyrac.  When  the  girl,  on  their 
way  back,  related  to  him  the  particulars 
of  the  shipwreck,  the  effect  on  her  father 
and  the  relapse  on  the  night  the  mill 
was  burnt,  he  looked  grave,  but  merely 
said  that  it  was  a  very  remarkable  case 
— such  as  he  had  read  of,  but  never  met 
with  before. 

Alone  with  the  miller,  the  latter  said, 
"  I  shall  not  live  long,  doctor." 

"  That  may  be.  Yet  I  find  not  any 
disease  pronounced.  De  nerves  are 
shaken  :  de  forces  are  feeble.  If  you 
have  not  hope  to  live,  it  may  arrive  that 
you  vill  die.  All  the  same,  you  may 
yet  survive.  The  courage  is  there  for 
much ;"  meaning,  probably,  that  courage 
had  much  to  do  with  his  p'atient's  chance 
of  recovery. 

The  miller  briefly  related  to  him  his 
trance  and  its  correspondence  with  real 
ities  at  home.  The  man  of  science 
smiled  with  good-natured  incredulity: 
"It  is  hazard  only.  Dere  are  dreams 
very  singular,  but  dey  prove  not  any 
thing.  Let  not  discourage  yourself  for 
dat." 

Harper's  view  of  the  matter  had  done 
much  more  to  quiet  the  miller's  mind 
than  Meyrac's  skepticism  did.  Chance  ? 
He  knew  that  couldn't  be  so.  Then  he 
brooded,  more  and  more,  over  the  idea 
of  a  death-warning.  The  needed  courage 
that  Meyrac  had  spoken  of  failed. 

Ten  days  later  his  mind  began  to 
wander.  He  was  haunted  by  the  recol 
lection  of  the  man  who  had  clung  to  him 
as  he  first  rose  to  the  surface.  He  ap 
peared  to  re-enact  the  scene,  struggling 
desperately,  striking  out  his  clenched 
fist,  as  if  at  an  opponent  ;  and  then, 
drooping  despondingly,  he  muttered, 
"What  could  I  do  ?  Is  it  murder  to 
strike  a  man  that's  just  going  to  strangle 
you  ?"  After  a  time  he  sank  into  a 
comatose  state,  lasting  many  hours. 
And  when  at  last  he  came  to  his  senses, 
his  feebleness  was  extreme. 

Another  day  the  over-excited  brain 
seemed  to  reproduce  the  scene  of  his 
exertions  to  rescue  Hartland.  He  im 
itated  the  dragging  of  a  heavy  weight 
till  he  was  bathed  in  perspiration  :  then 


fell  into  a  heavy  sleep  that  continued 
all  the  night  through.  From  each  of 
these  attacks  he  awoke  with  diminished 
strength.  The  lucid  intervals,  too,  be 
came  shorter  and  less  frequent. 

But,  except  during  t'.ie  moments  when 
fancy  recalled  the  dangers  he  had  passed, 
he  did  not  seem  to  suffer  much.  The 
coma  into  which  he  constantly  relapsed 
became  more  and  more  deep.  They 
scarcely  knew  when  he  passed  away. 
Ellen  sat,  for  the  last  two  hours,  his 
hand  in  hers,  and  not  a  movement — not 
the  slightest  convulsive  twitch — gave  in 
timation  of  pain  or  struggle.  Half  an 
hour  before  it  was  all  over  she  heard  him 
say,  in  a  tone  that  awed  her — so  solemn, 
so  utterly  different  was  it  from  his  usual 
manner — "  Deal  with  me,  O  God  !  as 
Thou  wilt,  but  let  that  man  love  her  : 
let  him  cherish  her."  Then  the  very 
last,  low  words  of  all — two  only  :  «  Dear 
Nell!" 

No  need  to  speak  of  the  orphan's  des 
olation.  For  days  after  her  father's 
death  one  wish  was  uppermost — that  she 
had  died  with  him.  Even  her  lover  was 
half  forgotten. 

It  was  two  weeks  before  she  saw  him  ; 
and  the  first  time  they  met  nothing  of 
moment  occurred.  He  spoke  kindly 
and  sympathizingly,  doing  what  he  could 
to  comfort  her,  and  evincing  deep  regret 
that  there  had  ever  been  any  difficulty 
between  her  father  and  himself. 

At  their  next  interview  she  told  him 
that  she  had  informed  her  father  of  their 
engagement,  and  that  he  had  acquiesced. 
He  expressed  pleasure  at  this. 

Then  they  talked  of  the  future.  «  How 
forlorn  you  must  be,"  he  said  to  her, 
"all  alone  there,  with  nobody  to  care 
for  you  !" 

"  Hiram's  as  kind  and  attentive  as  he 
can  be.  He  seems  to  guess  all  I  need 
before  I  ask  him.  And  then  Fve  little 
Willie  to  care  for." 

"That  mustn't  go  on,  Ellen,"  a  little 
sharply.  «  Of  course  we  must  let  some 
weeks  or  months  pass,  but  sorrow  can't 
call  back  those  that  are  gone  ;  and  if  we 
could  now  know  your  father's  wish,  I'ns 
sure  it  would  be  that  you  should  be  hap- 


226 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


py,  and  have  some  one  who  had  a  right 
to  protect  you  as  soon  as  possible." 

Then  she  had  to  tell  him  of  the  sol 
emn  promise  she  had  made  to  her  father 
on  his  deathbed. 

He  rebelled  at  once.  How  cruel,  in 
its  results,  is  often  the  affection,  even 
the  self-sacrifice,  of  weak,  fond  parents  ! 
All  the  strength  of  the  young  Widow 
Mowbray's  love,  inconsolable  under  be 
reavement,  had  centred  blindly  in  her 
boy.  His  very  faults  so  much  resem 
bled  those  of  the  husband  she  had  idol 
ized  throughout  their  few  short  years  of 
marriage  that  she  could  scarcely  find  it 
in  her  heart  to  reprove  them.  In  her 
little  household  everything  had  given 
way  to  him.  In  all  things  the  child  and 
his  will  and  his  caprices  had  taken  pre 
cedence.  They  were  poor  :  she  had  to 
do  much  of  her  own  work,  but  if  the 
little  sluggard  lay  in  bed  two  hours  after 
the  breakfast-hour,  he  was  never  dis 
turbed  ;  and  when  at  last  he  sauntered 
carelessly  down,  she  broke  off  whatever 
she  was  about,  to  see  that  he  had  a 
warm,  comfortable  meal.  In  the  same 
way  she  saved  him,  year  after  year,  every 
exertion,  every  annoyance,  at  expense  of 
double  exertion  and  double  annoyance  to 
herself.  When  he  grew  to  manhood, 
and  expenses  necessarily  increased,  it 
was  she  who  must  be  stinted  that  he 
might  dress  like  a  gentleman,  wear  fresh, 
delicate  kid  gloves  to  balls  and  parties 
and  smoke  the  highest-priced  Havana 
'cigars.  When  the  young  man  began  to 
long — as  youth,  ever  since  Virgil's  days, 
has  always  longed — for  a  horse,  their 
scanty  capital  had  to  be  encroached  on 
to  build  a  stable  ;  and  it  was  the  mother, 
not  the  son,  who  undertook  additional 
labor  —  labor  beyond  her  strength  —  to 
pay  bills  for  oats  and  corn  that  the  idle 
fellow  might  spend  half  his  days  in 
pleasure  rides. 

Selfishness  is  a  weed  needing  little 
culture,  and  Mrs.  Mowbray  had  uncon 
sciously  nursed  its  growth  for  twenty- 
four  years  in  her  son  Evelyn.  He  grew 
up  utterly  impatient  of  contradiction,  and 
feeling  it  as  an  injury — almost  as  an  in- 
i,ult — when  another's  comfort,  or  will,  or 
sense  of  duty  even,  crossed  his  own  good 


pleasure.  Who  can  calculate  the  effects, 
springing  from  devoted  kindness,  yet 
tending  from  sin  down  to  crime,  of  such 
a  training  ? 

«  Nonsense,  Ellen  !"  Mowbray  broke 
out  when  she  had  made  her  confession. 
"  How  old  are  you  ?" 

"•  In  less  than  three  months  I  shall  be 
twenty." 

"  And  you  mean  to  say  you've  gone 
and  promised  not  to  marry  for  nearly 
fifteen  months  ?" 

"  Yes,"  though  the  poor  child  had 
hardly  courage  to  say  it. 

«•  Then  you  did  a  very  foolish  thing : 
that's  all  I  can  say." 

'•  Oh.  Evelyn,  think  !  If  your  mother 
had  been  dying,  and  she  had  asked  you 
not  to  marry  me  till  you  were  twenty- 
five,  what  would  you  have  done  ?" 

"  Mother  never  would  have  been  so 
silly.  She  knows  how  unhappy  it  would 
have  made  me  ;  and  she  never  crosses 
me." 

"  Father  didn't  want  to  make  you  un 
happy,  Evelyn." 

"  Then  what  did  he  make  you  promise 
that  for  ?" 

Ellen  was  not  ready  with  an  answer. 

"It  would  make  me  unhappy  if  you 
were  to  keep  your  promise,  Ellen  ;  and 
if  your  father  didn't  want  that,  then  it 
would  be  wrong  in  you — 

"  Don't  say  that,  dear  Evelyn." 

"  Why  not  ?  Why  does  it  make  me 
unhappy  to  wait  ?  Because  I  love  you 
so  dearly.  What  would  it  signify  to  me 
whether  it  was  fifteen  days  or  fifteen 
months  if  I  didn't  care  for  you  ?  If  you 
cared — " 

He  was  looking  at  Ellen  as  he  said 
this,  and  her  eyes,  brimful  of  sorrow  and 
of  love,  would  not  let  him  go  on  in  that 
strain.  So  he  said,  «  Don't  you  think 
your  father  wanted  me  to  love  you  dear 
ly,  Ellen  ?" 

"  Evelyn,  Evelyn  !  But  I  never  told 
you.  Half  an  hour  before — before  he 
went  to  mother  and  left  me  alone — that 
was  his  dying  prayer.  The  very,  very 
last  word  on  his  lips  was  my  name.  And 
you  want  me  to  disobey  him  ?" 

Was  she  listening  to  hear  those  last 
words  of  the  dying  repeated  again  ?  She 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


227 


looked  up  to  heaven,  and  the  expression 
that  lighted  her  face  overawed  the  man, 
self-indulgent  and  impassive  to  spiritual 
influence  as  he  was. 

"If  father  had  not  wished  you  well, 
Evelyn,"  she  went  on  after  a  time, 
"  would  he  have  let  me  marry  you  ?  I 
don't  know  why  he  made  me  promise  as 
I  did.  I  never  can  know  now,  except 
that  I'm  sure  it  was  out  of  his  love  for  me. 
I  only  know  that  I  did  make  that  prom 
ise,  and  that  God  heard  me  call  His 
name  to  witness  that  I  would  keep  it. 
And  then,  Evelyn — " 

"  Well,  dear  ?"  the  tone  getting  im 
patient  again. 

«  I  think  father  can  hear  and  see  us 
now.  When  he  was  lying  hundreds  of 
miles  away,  all  but  drowned,  his  spirit 
saw  everything  I  did  and  heard  all  I 
said,  one  morning  at  the  well,  to  Hiram 
Goddart." 

"  What  did  you  say  to  him  ?" 

"  He  spoke  of  proposing  a  partner 
ship  in  the  mill.  When  father  came 
home  he  told  me  the  very  words." 

Mowbray  laughed  incredulously.  Then 
his  brow  darkened  :  «  Did  your  father 
hear  Hiram  propose  a  partnership  to  his 
daughter  too  ?" 

"You're  cruel,  Evelyn,  and  Hiram's 
as  good  as  he  can  be.'  He  couldn't  help 
loving  me,  any  more  than  I  can  help 
loving  you." 

"  If  you  think  me  cruel,  and  Hyram 
Goddart  the  best  man  that  ever  was,  I 
suppose  you  can't  help  that  either  ?" 

They  were  sitting  on  a  mossy  bank, 
under  the  deep  forest  shade,  Mowbray's 
arm  around  her  waist.  He  withdrew  it. 
The  action,  as  much  as  the  harsh  words, 
overcame  her.  She  shuddered,  as  one 
stricken  with  ague,  and  when  she  could 
speak  for  weeping,  she  said,  » I  don't 
know  what  I'm  saying,  Mr.  Mowbray. 
I  didn't  mean  you  were  cruel :  when 
others  were  cruel,  you've  always  been 
kind.  And  all  I  meant  about  Hiram 
was  that  he  is  kind  and  good.  Surely, 
surely  you  know  that  I  love  nobody  but 
you." 

"  Why  do  you  call  me  Mr.  Mowbray, 
if  you  love  me  ?" 

"  Did  I  call  you  so  ?     I  think  it  must 


have  been  because  I  didn't  know  if 
you  would  ever  be  more  to  me  than 
that." 

"  Ellen,  whatever  I  ask  you,  you  re 
fuse  me.  Are  you  going  to  break  off 
our  engagement  and  marry  Hiram  ?" 

That  was  the  drop  too  much.  With 
an  uncontrollable  impulse  she  threw  her 
arms  round  his  neck  and  hid  her  face  in 
his  bosom,  her  frame  convulsed  with 
sobs. 

"  If  you  knew,  Evelyn,"  she  faltered 
out  at  last — "if  you  only  knew  how  it 
breaks  my  heart  to  refuse  you  anything  ! 
But  see  !  Father  mustn't  be  angry  with 
me,  up  there  in  heaven — he  and  mother. 
I  think  it  won't  be  long  till  I  see  them 
there  ;  and  I  must  be  able  to  tell  the 
old  man — him  that  never  spoke  one  un 
kind  word  to  me — that  I  didn't  break 
my  word  to  him — what  I  promised  him 
when  he  was  dying.  Oh,  Evelyn,  I 
must,  I  must  !  You're  good,  Evelyn  : 
you're  so  good — so  good  to  me  !  You 
don't  want  me,  when  I  die,  to  be  think 
ing  that  the  first  word  to  them  will  have 
to  be  that  I  lied  to  father  just  before  he 
left  me,  with  a  prayer  to  God  for  me  on 
his  lips." 

He  did  not  reply,  but  he  soothed  and 
caressed  her,  as  she  lay  in  his  arms,  till 
the  sobs  gradually  ceased  and  she  re 
covered,  in  a  measure,  her  tranquillity. 

After  a  time  she  spoke  again  :  "You 
said  if  I  cared  for  you,  Evelyn.  I  know 
I've  never  done  anything  for  you.  If  \ 
only  knew — if  I  could  find  out — what  a 
poor  orphan  like  me  could  do  to  show 
you  what  sort  of  love  it  is  I  have  for 
you  !" 

It  was  a  perilous  state  of  feeling. 
Ellen  did  not  know  that  such  affection 
as  hers  once  prompted  Arria  to  suicide ; 
and  is  not  suicide  a  sin  ? 

"  That  promise  I  gave  to  father,"  she 
pursued  :  "  it's  the  only  thing.  Ask  me 
anything  else,  Evelyn — anything.  There's 
nothing  I  would  deny  you  but  that." 

"  Nothing  ?"  A  base,  coward  thought 
just  glanced  through  his  mind  as  he  said 
it — so  base  that  the  man,  selfish  as  he 
was,  shrank  from  it  as  from  a  serpent. 
Vice  had  still  its  "frightful  mien"  to 
him. 


228 


BE  TON D    THE   BREAKERS. 


"  No,  Evelyn,  nothing."  Sweetly, 
calmly  said.  No  dream  of  evil.  Purity 
itself  in  that  trusting  smile.  No  inkling 
of  wrong  in  those  loving,  guileless  eyes. 
How  sharp  the  rebuke  so  unconsciously 
given  ! 

Had  the  girl  been  less  generous,  less 
faithful,  more  given  to  thinking  of  evil, 
her  danger  would  have  been  much  less 
than  it  was  then. 

In  their  after  meetings  Mowbray  did 
not  again  bring  up  the  subject  of  Ellen's 
promise,  nor  further  insist  on  marriage 
before  the  time  her  father  had  set. 

I  know  it  is  the  world's  way,  when 
some  poor  young  creature  strays  from 
the  path  of  peace,  to  settle  it  that  she  sins 
at  the  prompting  of  selfish,  incontinent 
passion.  Alas  !  that  happens  some 
times.  But  far,  far  more  frequently  the 


temptation  is  one  in  which  selfishness 
has  no  part.  Sometimes  it  is  abject 
poverty  that  rules  :  dishonor  is  incurred 
to  prolong  the  life  of  helpless  father  or 
mother  or  to  win  bread  for  orphaned  in 
fancy  left  to  a  sister's  care. 

Sometimes — and  this  sad  truth  almost 
eludes  attention — the  motive  is  traceable 
to  romantic  self-sacrifice,  wild  eagerness 
to  prove  the  reality  of  a  love  arrested, 
perhaps,  for  the  time,  in  its  placid,  le 
gitimate  course.  Few  men  conceive  of 
such  a  sacrifice.  It  is  often  made  for 
men  when  they  know  it  not.  God  for 
give  the  sacrilegious  traitors  who  know 
and  accept  it,  bringing  to  ruin  those  the 
latchet  of  whose  shoes  they  are  not 
worthy  to  unloose!  If  such  obtain  Di 
vine  mercy  at  the  last,  what  wretch, 
blackened  with  a  thousand  crimes,  but 
may  hope  for  pardon  too  ? 


PART    X  I  I. 


CHAPTER  XLII. 
THE    ABDUCTION. 

"  Magnetism  has  been  made,  by  turns,  a  trade,  a 
pastime  ;  a  science,  a  philosophy,  a  religion  :  a  lover's 
go-between  and  a  physician's  guide."— DELAAGE. 

IN  the  study  at  Rosebank,  on  a  Satur 
day  afternoon,  some  ten  days  after 
Tyler's  death. 

"Is  it  possible,  Mr.  Creighton  ?"  said 
Sydenham.  «  It  sounds  more  like  some 
coincidence  invented  to  help  out  the  plot 
of  a  novel  than  an  incident  in  real  life. 
What  a  strange  chance  !" 

"/y  there  such  a  thing  as  chance?" 
replied  Creighton.  "We  are  wonder 
fully  made  :  are  we  not  also  wonderfully 
led  sometimes?  What  so  strange  as 
truth  and  God's  economy  !  But  are  you 
sure  as  to  the  name  ?" 

"Terence  pronounced  it  Cunningem, 
and  called  him  Sir  Charles." 

« It  must  be  the  same,"  Creighton 
said,  referring  to  a  paper  before  him  : 
»  <  Charles  Conynghame,  Baronet?  " 

«So  that  scoundrel  Cranstoun  could 
not  keep  to  the  truth  even  about  so 
simple  a  matter  as  a  name.  Dunmore, 
he  told  Celia,  the  guardian's  name  was." 
"  He  was  afraid  we  might  forestall 
him — writing  first,  or  by  the  same  post 
as  himself." 

"The  suit  is  in  Sir  Charles'  own 
name  ?" 

"  Yes.  He  takes  Miss  Ellinor's  death, 
it  seems,  for  granted." 

"  So,  then,  she  is  the  heir  ?" 
"  As  against  him,  certainly ;  but  if 
my  view  of  the  law  in  the  case — and 
Mr.  Marshall's  too,  by  the  way— be  cor 
rect,  Miss  Celia  is  co-heir,  and  the  sis 
ters  will  divide  equally." 

"  The  sisters  !  I  can  scarcely  real 
ize  it." 

"  Mr.  Cranstoun,  however,  would  say 
your  ward  was  excluded  from  the  suc 
cession." 

«  Celia  will  be  delighted." 
"  That's  a  great  deal  to  say  for  any 
one,  Mr.  Sydenham." 


« So  it  is,  but  you  will  find  I  am 
right." 

Creighton's  face  flushed  with  pleas 
ure  :  "It  does  one  good  to  meet  with  a 
nature  so  noble  as  that." 

"Did  you  know  that  Ellinor's  name 
was  Talbot  ?" 

"No.  And  she  never  told  me  her 
guardian's  name — only  the  general  in 
cidents  of  her  story.  I  knew  her  only 
as  Miss  Ethelridge.  Good  that  Terence 
peeped  through  that  keyhole  :  how  else 
should  we  have  known  what  a  heroine 
the  young  lady  is  ?  And  then  his  de 
position  as  to  her  identity  is  the  very 
thing.  But  first  I  must  see  her,  to  make 
sure  there's  no  mistake." 

That  same  Saturday  morning  Celia 
entered  Ellinor's  room  in  riding  equip 
ment.  "  Another  French  scholar,"  she 
said—"  Ellen  Tyler.  I've  just  been  to 
see  the  poor  girl.  What  suffering  there 
is  in  this  world  !" 

"  Occupation  is  the  surest  alleviation. 
I'm  glad  she  is  coming  to"  us." 

"  How  does  the  list  of  scholars  stand 
now  ?"  asked  Celia  as  Ellinor  set  down 
Ellen's  name.  "  Is  it  up  to  what  it  was 
when  I  joined  you  ?" 

"  Not  quite,  I  see  :  five  less — that's 
all.  Good  Mr.  Sydenham's  kind  word 
at  the  Mite  was  help  in  time  of  need."" 
"And  Lela's,  the  darling  !  But  I've 
something  more  to  tell  you,  Ellie.  I've 
had  such  a  time  with  dear  auntie  !  I 
never  saw  her  so  near  being  downright 
angry  with  me  before.  I  shall  have  to 
give  up,  I'm  afraid,  and  you  must  help 
me." 

"  I  wish  I  had  been  there  to  see." 
"  You  needn't  laugh.  I  had  got  aunt 
persuaded  to  let  me  pay  Mr.  Hartland  a 
hundred  dollars  a  year  for  my  board,  and 
eighty  more  for  Bess.  Now  that  it  is 
her  own  house  she  rebels,  and  says  if  I 
won't  accept  my  board  and  Bess'  keep 
from  my  mother's  sister,  she'll  never  for 
give  me  as  long  as  she  lives." 

"She   is  in  good  circumstances,  and 
229 


230 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


you  owe  her  that  kindness.     You  must 
agree  to  it,  dear  child." 

"On  one  condition.  I'll  be  a  good 
girl  if  you  will  too.  See  here,  Ellie  !  I 
wanted  to  help  you  in  the  school,  and 
I've  been  nothing  but  a  millstone  about 
your  neck." 

"  Indeed !  I'd  like  to  have  a  few 
more  such.  I  had  no  idea  millstones 
were  such  pleasant  wear." 

« It's  serious.  Ellie :  don't  put  me 
out.  Suppose  Bess  and  I  stay  with 
auntie  for  nothing.  Mr.  Sydenham  pays 
me  a  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  a  year  for 
Leoline's  lessons  ;  and  I  can't,  with  any 
propriety,  spend  more  than  that  on  dress 
and  knickknacks." 

"  So  you  want  to  violate  our  articles 
of  partnership,  and  make  me  take  all  the 
profits  ?" 

"  What  a  darling  you  are  to  guess  it 
so  nicely !  Precisely,  my  dear  :  that's 
just  it." 

"  You  know,  Celia — you  know  I  can't 
do  that." 

"Indeed  I  don't.  But  I'll  tell  you 
what  I  do  know.  If  you  stand  out 
against  me,  I'll  stand  out  against  auntie 
— I  will.  So  you  may  take  your  choice. 
Then  I  want  to  whisper  something  in 
your  ear." 

"  Be  reasonable,  Celia — " 

"  Certainly,  if  you  will  only  listen. 
<  Strike,  but  hear  !'  " 

«  Well  ?" 

Celia  whispered  :  «  It's  all  in  the  fam 
ily,  my  dear.  Ethan  will  be  auntie's 
heir.  If  I  don't  pay  auntie,  Ethan  will 
lose  a  hundred  and  eighty  dollars  a  year. 
That's  all  the  same  as  if  Mrs.  Ethan 
lost  it :  '  they  twain  shall  be  one  flesh, 
you  know.  I'd  be  getting  paid  twice, 
Ellie :  is  that  what  you  call  reason  ? 
Then  how  are  you  going  to  buy  that 
furniture  ?  Ethan  tells  me  his  secrets 
sometimes." 

« You  are  too  bad  !"  But  Ellinor 
took  the  laughing  girl  in  her  arms  and 
caressed  her  and  kissed  her  and  called 
her  pet  names,  till  neither  could  refrain 
from  tears.  What  they  both  cried  for  I 
don't  exactly  know. 

After  a  while  Celia  said  :  "  There  are 
two  sisters,  Ellie — at  least  thev  made  an 


agreement  they  were  to  be  sisters.  I 
think  the  elder  will  be  married  soon.  I 
don't  believe  the  younger  will  ever  mar 
ry — not  for  many  years,  at  all  events  ; 
and  she  has  more  than  enough  to  live 
on  comfortably.  Now  do  you  think  it's 
just  the  sisterly  thing  for  these  two  to 
keep  such  strict  accounts  that  the  elder 
can't  have  what  she  needs  for  wedding- 
things  and  to  do  a  little  toward  house- 
furnishing,  because  the  younger  may 
possibly  need  some  money  ten  years 
hence  ?" 

"  Ten  years,  Celia  ?  You're  going  to 
make  him  wait  that  length  of  time  ?" 

«  Whom  ?" 

A  knock  at  the  door  and  Nelly  came 
in  :  « Mr.  Creighton,  Miss  Ellinor,  for 
to  see  ye." 

"  In  a  minute  or  two,  Nelly,  please 
tell  him."  Then,  when  the  girl  had  gone : 
"  If  you  don't  know,  Celia,  or  if  Nelly 
did  not  stumble  on  the  answer,  then  I 
can't  pretend  to  guess.  Wait  for  me, 
won't  you,  dear  ?" 

In  quarter  of  an  hour  she  returned 
pale  and  agitated. 

"  What  has  Mr.  Creighton  been  tell 
ing  you  ?  Bad  news,  Ellie  ?" 

"  No."  Then,  after  a  pause,  "  I  ought 
to  be  glad." 

"And  yet  you're  sorry.  You'll  tell 
me  all  about  it,  won't  you  ?" 

«  Yes,  dear.  I  promised  you  I  would, 
some  day."  She  drew  Celia  to  the  sofa, 
retaining  her  hand. 

"  After  mother's  death  I  had  a  guard 
ian — a  rich  man,  not  a  good  one — Sir 
Charles  Conynghame.  Mr.  Creighton 
came  this  morning  to  know  from  me 
if  that  was  his  name.  I  don't  know 
why  :  not  from  idle  curiosity,  he  said, 
and  that  he  would  tell  me  more  to-mor 
row.  He  had  heard  the  name,  it  seems, 
from  a  man  who  once  saved  me — saved 
me  I  mustn't  think  from  what — at  my 
utmost  need  :  a  brave,  good  young  fel 
low,  the  father  of  little  Derry  and  Kath 
leen.  Strange  that  I  didn't  know  him 
again  when  he  brought  them  to  school !" 

"  Terence,  the  Irishman,  who  manages 
Mr.  Sydenham's  farm  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  but  I  must  go  back  to  my 
story."  Her  gaze,  as  she  paused,  seem- 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


231 


ed  exploring  some  mysterious  distance. 
Celia  knew,  as  she  looked  at  those  eyes, 
how  sad  the  recollections  must  be. 

"  How  happy  you  were,  Celia,"  El- 
linor  said  at  last,  «» to  have  had  such  a 
mother!  Mine  —  but  I  dare  say  I  was 
wayward  and  disobedient  and  hard  to 
manage,  or  perhaps  mamma  was  soured 
by  some  cross  or  grief.  It's  terrible  to 
say,  but  I  don't  remember  one  really 
happy  day  at  home.  I  had  happy  days, 
but  they  were  spent  with  Cousin  Con 
stance.  She  was  ten  years  older  than 
I  ;  and  my  idea  of  angels  in  heaven  was 
that  they  must  be  like  her.  One  child 
hood's  recollection,  standing  out  from  all 
the  rest,  is  my  being  dressed  out  in  my 
first  white  silk  frock — just  seven  years 
old  then  —  for  Constance's  wedding. 
<  She's  Lady  Conynghame  now,'  my 
nurse  whispered  to  me  as  the  bridegroom 
placed  the  ring  on  her  finger." 

«  She  married  your  guardian,  then  ?" 

«  Her  husband  afterward  became  my 
guardian — yes.  I  remember,  when  the 
marriage  was  over,  I  put  my  arms  round 
the  bride  and  told  her,  crying  bitterly 
the  while,  what  nurse  had  said,  and 
asked  her  if  she  wasn't  my  cousin  Con 
stance  any  more.  She  smiled,  then 
cried  a  little  herself — which  I  thought 
was  very  strange  on  her  wedding-day — 
and  said  she  was  my  own  very  cousin 
Constance,  and  always  would  be  till  she 
died,  and  that  there  was  nobody  in  all 
the  world  she  loved  as  well  as  me.  I 
suppose  her  husband  didn't  quite  like 
that,  but  he  took  me  up  kindly  and  kiss 
ed  me,  and  told  me  mamma  had  agreed 
that  I  should  come  and  see  Cousin  Con 
stance  whenever  I  liked.  <  Didn't  you, 
Mrs.  Talbot  ?'  he  said,  appealing  to  her, 
and  she  assented." 

«  Mrs.  Talbot  ?" 

"  Ah  !  I  forgot.  Mamma,  who  liked 
show  and  station,  gave  me  three  bap 
tismal  names — Mary  Ellinor  Ethelridge  : 
Ethelridge  was  her  maiden  name.  Con 
stance  always  called  me  Ellie,  and  I 
only  brought  two  of  my  four  names  with 
me  to  democratic  America." 

"  Had  Lady  Conyinghame  children  ?" 

«  None — except  me,  she  used  to  say. 
Mamma  died  when  I  was  twelve  years 


old,  making  Sir  Charles  her  executor 
and  leaving  me  in  his  care,  the  property 
to  go  to  him  in  case  I  died  unmarried 
and  without  a  will.  I  should  have  been 
perfectly  happy  with  my  cousin,  only 
that,  as  I  grew  older,  I  saw  that  she  was 
not  happy.  She  had  been  over-persuaded 
to  the  marriage.  Sir  Charles  was  rich, 
indulgent,  good-natured  in  a  general  way, 
but  without  any  feeling  deserving  the 
name  of  love.  He  became  a  gambler, 
too,  keeping  dissipated  company,  and 
risking  hundreds,  if  not  thousands,  on 
his  favorite  horses.  Constance  behaved 
admirably  to  him.  He  was  proud  of 
her,  and  grudged  her  nothing  as  long  as 
the  money  lasted.  But  what  sympathy, 
what  companionship  could  there  be  ? 
Some  Frenchman  talks  of  people  who 
think  themselves  entitled  to  rank  and 
fortune  because  they've  <  taken  the  trou 
ble  of  being  born  !'*  Well,  my  dear, 
Sir  Charles  was  one  of  these." 

"  Poor  Constance  !" 

"  And  if  you  had  known,  Celia,  what 
a  noble,  loving  darling  she  was  !  To 
me  friend,  sister,  mother— teacher,  too, 
and  guardian.  If  I  know  anything,  if 
I'm  good  for  anything,  it  was  her  doing. 
I  don't  think  one  human  being  ever 
owed  more  to  another  than  I  to  her. 
When  I  lost  her—" 

«  She  died  ?" 

"  When  I  was  seventeen.  We  had 
been  a  year  in  Paris.  The  fashionable 
dissipation  into  which  she  was  forced 
wore  upon  her,  but  far  more  her  hus 
band's  increasing  dissipation.  Titled 
swindlers,  professional  gamblers,  jockeys 
and  stable-boys  were  his  companions. 
He  seemed  to  become  daily  more  reck 
less,  and  was  often  embarrassed  for 
money.  Once,  I  remember,  we  had 
bailiffs  in  the  house.  But  I  think  an 
other  grief  wore  on  Constance's  spirits 
more  than  all  the  rest.  In  some  way— 
perhaps  from  himself,  when  flushed  with 
wine — she  must  have  come  to  know  that 
he  was  using  the  money  which  as  exec 
utor  had  been  placed  in  his  hands." 

*  "  Noblesse,  fortune,  un  rang,  des  places ;  tout 
cela  rend  si  fier  !  Qu'  avez  vous  fait  pour  tant  de 
biens?  Vous  vous  e"tes  donne"  la  peine  de  naitre,  et 
rien  de  plus." — BEAUMARCHAIS,  Le  Mariage  de  Fi 
garo,  Acte  V.,  Scene  3. 


232 


BEYOND    THE   BREAKERS. 


"  Your  property,  Ellie  ?" 

"  Yes.  Some  eight  or  ten  thousand 
pounds — I  don't  know  the  exact  sum. 
On  her  deathbed,  when  delirious  with 
fever,  Constance  spoke,  in  frenzied  words 
which  I  shall  remember  to  my  dying 
day,  of  some  terrible  dishonor — some 
breach  of  trust  of  which  her  husband 
had  been  guilty.  Suddenly  she  took  me 
in  her  arms,  lamenting  over  me  in  terms 
oh  so  pitiful  ! — then  crying  as  if  her  very 
heart  would  break.  Later  I  knew  what 
it  meant.  I'm  sure  it  hastened  her 
death.  Next  morning — ah,  Celia,  I  was 
never  an  orphan  till  then  !" 

Celia  had  taken  Ellinor  in  her  arms, 
and  when  a  burst  of  grief,  controlled  up 
to  that  moment,  had  subsided,  she  asked 
her,  "  Had  you  to  remain  in  Sir  Charles' 
house  ?" 

"  What  could  I  do  ?  When  we  re 
turned  to  London,  his  widowed  sister, 
Mrs.  Beaumont — hard,  haughty,  aristo 
cratic  in  the  worst  sense — came  to  keep 
house  for  him.  To  her  I  was  an  en 
cumbrance,  and  no  day  passed  in  which 
she  did  not  make  me  feel  it.  I  was  far 
worse  than  alone.  If  a  fervent  longing 
could  have  brought  death,  I  should  soon 
have  been  with  my  lost  darling  again." 

"  You  were  spared  to  do  good  here, 
and  for  me  to  love  you,  Ellie." 

"  God  overrules  all,  but  in  those  days 
I  had  not  learned  to  realize  that.  I  fell 
into  a  weak,  nervous  state.  The  phy 
sician  recommended  exercise.  To  avoid 
driving  out  with  Mrs.  Beaumont,  whom 
I  hated,  I  went  regularly  to  a  noted 
riding-school  not  far  off." 

There  she  stopped.  Celia  guessed 
the  reason.  "If  it  pains  you  to  go  on, 
dear — "  she  began. 

"I 'ma  coward:  that's  the  truth.  I 
linger  over  details,  because  the  rest — 
Never  mind,  I  want  you  to  know  it  all." 

«  Well,  Ellie  ?" 

"  The  style  of  people  who  frequented 
our  house  after  dear  Conny's  death 
changed  much  for  the  worse.  Among 
them  was  one  whom  we  had  known 
while  Constance  was  alive,  and  who  had 
seemed  to  me,  at  first,  better  than  most 
of  the  others.  He  was  Sir  Charles'  in 
timate  friend — Captain  Halloran,  of  the 


Guards.  He  was  handsome,  and  I  think 
may  once  have  been  good.  I  liked  to 
talk  to  him  more  than  he  deserved  :  even 
then  I  used  to  be  conscious  that  I  did. 
Yet  there  was  something  genial  and 
pleasant  enough  about  him,  except  now 
and  then  when  a  certain  look  came  over 
his  face  :  I  can't  describe  it,  but  it  gave 
me  the  idea  of  a  reckless,  self-indulgent 
man.  At  other  times  I  felt  in  his  society 
quiet,  satisfied,  and,  strange  to  say,  often 
very  drowsy." 

"  As  I  do,  sometimes,  near  you,  Ellie." 
"  Yes,  dear.  Once  or  twice  in  the 
evening  I  had  to  leave  the  drawing-room 
after  talking  with  him,  for  I  was  actually 
afraid  I  should  go  to  sleep.  Yet  it  was 
some  time  before  it  occurred  to  me  that 
he  had  anything  to  do  with  it :  I  thought 
it  was  only  nervous  weakness.  One 
morning,  when  he  called  to  see  me,  and 
when  I  pleaded  my  engagement  at  the 
riding-school  as  excuse  for  cutting  short 
the  visit,  he  begged  so  hard  to  accom 
pany  me  that  I  yielded,  though  till  then 
I  had  never  allowed  any  one  but  a  ser 
vant  to  attend  me.  During  the  lesson 
he  remained  in  a  small  gallery  overlook 
ing  the  riding-arena,  and  to  which  gen 
tlemen  accompanying  young  ladies  to 
the  school  were  admitted.  Once  or  twice 
during  the  hour  I  rode  a  sleepy  fit  came 
over  me,  so  that  the  riding-master  no 
ticed  it  and  asked  me  if  I  had  not  been 
up  very  late  the  night  before.  In  return 
ing  home  the  unaccountable  feeling  so 
gained  on  me  that  I  must  have  walked 
some  distance  in  an  unconscious  state. 
The  thundering  rap  which  announced 
our  return  awoke  me  on  the  doorstep." 
"  What  a  wonderful  thing  !" 
"  When  I  thought  it  over,  it  recalled 
to  me  a  discussion  I  had  heard,  a  few 
evenings  before,  between  Captain  Hal 
loran  and  several  other  gentlemen,  but 
to  which,  at  the  time,  I  had  paid  little 
attention.  They  had  spoken  of  human 
magnetism  and  its  strange  effects,  and 
now  it  suddenly  occurred  to  me  that  my 
drowsiness  might  be  due  to  magnetic 
influence." 

"  Did  you  avoid  him  ?" 
"  I  never  allowed  him  to  go  with  me 
j   to  the  riding-school  again  ;  and   I  tried 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


233 


to  keep  away  from  him  as  much  as  I 
could.  But  I  found  that  a  difficult  thing 
to  do.  Several  times,  when  he  sat  down 
by  me  and  began  to  talk,  I  resolved,  as 
soon  as  common  politeness  permitted, 
to  rise  and  leave  him.  But  when  I  tried 
to  rise  I  felt  that  I  had  lost  the  power. 
It  seemed  to  me  as  if  he  were  telling  me 
to  sit  still,  and  that  I  had  to  obey  him. 
I  felt,  too,  a  sort  of  fascination,  partly 
painful,  partly  pleasurable,  in  yielding  to 
this  mysterious  authority." 

«  Poor  Ellie  !" 

"  I  had  a  sense  of  danger,  too  ;  and 
had  it  been  possible  I  would  have  left 
the  house  for  some  other  where  the  cap 
tain  could  not  reach  me  ;  for  in  his  ab 
sence  he  was  comparatively  indifferent 
to  me,  and  I  had  self-control  enough 
left  earnestly  to  desire  that  I  might  never 
see  him  again.  But  Sir  Charles  was 
the  only  relative  I  knew  anything  about 
—the  only  person,  indeed,  on  whom  I 
had  any  claim." 

"  Did  Captain  Halloran  make  love  to 
you,  Ellie  ?" 

"  About  a  year  and  a  half  after  Lady 
Conynghame's  death  he  proposed  to  me. 
With  a  strong  effort  I  managed  to  refuse 
him  ;  and  very  glad  I  was  of  it  after  he 
was  gone.  But  he  persisted,  coming 
almost  every  evening,  usually  to  dinner. 
Mrs.  Beaumont,  I  saw,  encouraged  him. 
One  day,  when  I  felt  that  I  grievously 
needed  help,  I  asked  him  how  he  knew 
that  Sir  Charles  would  consent.  Then 
it  came  out  about  my  property.  The 
captain  said  my  guardian  had  squander 
ed  every  penny  of  it,  and  of  course  would 
resist  my  marriage  with  any  one.  Then 
he  professed  that  he  cared  nothing  about 
the  money:  his  father  would  'come 
down  handsomely,'  he  said,  in  case  of 
marriage.  But  on  my  guardian's  ac 
count  it  must  be  a  private  marriage — by 
special  license.  '  I  have  it  here,'  he 
said,  taking  a  paper  from  his  pocket. 
I've  often  wondered,  Celia  dear,  how  the 
poor  little  birds  feel  when  the  serpent's 
eye  is  on  them  and  they  can't  even  move 
a  wing.  When  I  read  that  license,  it 
seemed  to  me  like  the  fiat  of  doom.  If 
I  had  had  anybody  to  sustain  me,  I 
could  have  escaped.  But  everything 


seemed  crumbling  around  me,  life  value 
less,  and  nothing  worth  striving  for  or 
striving  against.  I  had,  indeed,  misgiv 
ings  about  my  suitor,  yet  I  felt  a  sense 
of  protection,  a  soothing  of  nerves,  when 
I  was  near  him.  All  the  other  habitues 
of  the  house  were  repulsive  to  me. 
Captain  Halloran  saw  his  advantage  and 
pressed  it,  assuming  my  consent.  I 
felt  that  I  was  giving  up,  half  by  attrac 
tion  and  half  in  despair." 

"  You  agreed  to  marry  him  ?  Poor 
darling  !" 

"  When  it  came  to  the  point,  and  he 
told  me,  one  afternoon,  that  he  had  a 
carriage  a  square  off  to  take  me  to  his 
aunt's,  where  the  clergyman  awaited  us, 
I  repented  and  flatly  refused  to  go.  To 
my  surprise,  he  said  it  should  be  just  as 
I  pleased  ;  he  would  wait  my  time  and 
pleasure  ;  he  would  speak  to  his  servant 
and  dismiss  the  carriage.  How  long  he 
stayed  after  his  return  to  the  drawing- 
room  I  never  knew,  nor  when  nor  how 
I  left  the  house.  I  first  awoke  to  a 
sense  of  my  situation  (as  I  had  done  in 
returning  from  the  riding-school)  at  the 
loud  rat-tat-at  of  a  fashionable  knock. 
I  heard  the  captain  swearing  at  his  ser 
vant  for  making  such  a  noise,  and  he 
looked  uneasily  at  me.  But  I  had  pres 
ence  of  mind  enough  to  express  no  sur 
prise,  and  followed  him  submissively  into 
the  house,  with  one  resolve  on  which  I 
strove  to  concentrate  my  will — namely, 
not  to  suffer  that  stupor  to  return." 

"  Was  the  clergyman  there  ?" 

"  A  man  with  a  hateful  countenance, 
but  scrupulously  dressed  in  canonical 
robes.  Then  there  was  what  seemed,  at 
least,  a  lady,  over-dressed,  very  conde 
scending,  and  to  whom  the  captain  in 
troduced  me,  calling  her  aunt :  several 
younger  ladies  also,  and  a  baronet,  a 
friend  of  the  captain,  whom  I  had  often 
met  at  our  house.  When  the  «aunt' 
kissed  me  I  shuddered.  You  will  think 
me  superstitious,  I  know,  dear — 

"  Perhaps  not,  Ellie." 

«  It  came  to  me,  I  cannot  tell  how — 
I  suppose  a  Swedenborgian  would  say 
my  interior  sight  was  opened — it  came 
to  me,  not  in  words  I  think,  but  flashing 
over  my  mind  as  if  I  had  heard  some 


234 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


one  whisper  :  «  No  aunt,  no  clergyman  : 
all  false  !'  I  turned  suddenly  to  the  wo 
man,  who  spoke  to  me  in  what  she 
meant  for  an  affectionate  style,  intro 
ducing  to  me  two  of  the  young  ladies 
dressed  in  white,  who  were  to  act,  she 
said,  as  my  bridesmaids.  They  also  ad 
dressed  to  me  some  civil  commonplaces. 
But  something  in  the  tone  and  manners 
of  all  three  made  me  think  they  were 
not  persons  of  position,  accustomed  to 
good  society.  The  captain  beckoned  to 
the  clergyman,  who  began  the  ceremony, 
speaking  with  a  slight  foreign  accent,  I 
thought.  I  let  it  go  on  till  it  came  to 
the  question  whether  I  took  this  man 
to  be  my  husband  ;  and  then  to  Hallo- 
ran's  utter  astonishment — for  I  know  he 
thought  me  still  entranced — I  answered 
with  all  the  energy  I  could  muster,  'No, 
I  do  not.'  " 

"  Brave  darling  !  But  what  a  terrible 
plot !" 

"  These  things  don't  happen  in  novels 
only,  Celia.  The  wonder  is,  that  the 
strange  control  which  animal  magnetism 
gives  is  not  more  frequently  abused. 
There  was  a  pause  when  I  came  out 
with  that  unlooked-for  denial,  and  I  felt 
that  Captain  Halloran  was  exerting  his 
utmost  influence  to  throw  me  again  into 
a  somnambulic  state.  But  either  some 
mysterious  guardian  influence  interposed, 
or  my  excited  indignation  enabled  me  to 
resist,  for  I  succeeded  in  resisting. 

" ;  Go  on,'  said  the  captain  to  the 
clergyman  :  '  it  was  a  mistake.  Ask 
the  question  again.'  But  before  he  had 
time  to  proceed  I  turned  to  the  young 
baronet.  'Sir  George,'  said  I,  <aman 
of  honor  will  not  stand  by  and  permit 
this.' 

"  '  D — n  it,  Tom,  this  won't  do,'  said 
he  to  the  captain:  'an  elopement's  all 
well  enough,  but  a  gentleman  can't  re 
fuse  a  lady  protection  when  she  asks  it.' 

"  The  captain  turned  white  to  the 
very  lips  with  anger,  but  he  choked  it 
down  and  only  said,  '  You  know  she 
came  here  willingly,  George.' 

"  Maybe,'  the  other  replied;  'but  a 
lady  has  the  right  to  change  her  mind. 
Where  do  you  wish  to  go  to,  Miss 
Talbot  ?' 


"'Home,'  I  said,  'to  Sir  Charles'." 

"  <  You  hear  ?'  said  Sir  George  to  the 
captain  :  'it  can't  go  on.' 

"  '  Sir  George,'  cried  Halloran,  <  you 
shall  answer  for  this.' 

"  'All  right,  my  good  fellow,'  said  Sir 
George,  coolly.  «  But  will  you  take  her 
home,  or  shall  I  ?' 

"  The  captain,  I  saw,  was  furious,  but 
after  some  hesitation  he  said  that  if  the 
carriage  was  still  in  waiting,  and  if  I 
insisted,  he  would  escort  me.  With  that 
he  left  the  room.  I  expressed  my  grat 
itude  to  Sir  George,  and  begged  that  he 
would  see  me  safe  out  of  the  house. 
This,  on  the  captain's  return,  he  did, 
waiting  till  he  heard  the  order  given  to 
the  coachman  :  <  To  Sir  Charles  Conyng- 
hame's.'  Then  I  felt  comparatively  at 
ease  again,  having  made  up  my  mind  to 
disclose  the  whole  to  my  guardian,  and 
to  ask  that  Captain  Halloran  be  forbid 
den  the  house.  This  threw  me  off  my 
guard,  particularly  as  the  captain  spoke 
in  the  most  submissive  terms,  saying 
that  he  saw  now  that  my  aversion  to 
him  was  unconquerable,  and  that  it  was 
useless  to  press  his  suit  farther.  As  he 
said  this  I  felt — and  hated  myself  for 
feeling — that  in  spite  of  his  gross  mis 
conduct,  I  had  no  aversion  to  him.  On 
the  contrary,  I  felt  again  that  inexplicable 
attraction,  and  found  myself  seeking  ex 
cuses  for  his  behavior.  It  occurred  to 
me  that  perhaps,  in  trance,  I  might 
have  actually  consented  to  leave  Sir 
Charles'  house ;  and  then,  as  to  the 
marriage,  had  I  not  seen  the  special 
license  ?  This  revulsion  of  feeling  was 
dangerous — the  more  so,  as  we  were  in 
a  coupd.  single-seated,  and  I  had  no 
choice  but  to  let  the  captain  sit  by  me. 
He  had  lowered  the  blinds,  which  I  was 
glad  of,  for  I  feared  to  be  recognized  as 
we  drove  along.  Gradually  that  subtle 
influence  began  to  steal  over  me  again. 
The  way  seemed  very  long,  but  such 
was  the  fascination  that  I  did  not  care 
how  long  it  was.  I  felt  as  if  I  could  go 
on  so  for  ever.  The  last  thing  I  re 
member  was  the  thought  that,  though  I 
was  again  sinking  into  trance,  the  knock 
ing  at  Sir  Charles'  door  would  awake 
me." 


BETOND   THE  BREAKERS. 


235 


"  Did  it  ?"  asked  Celia,  eagerly. 

"  Alas,  dear  child  !  we  never  arrived 
there.  When  I  awoke  to  partial  con 
sciousness  we  were  ascending  the  stairs 
of  a  house  that  was  unknown  to  me.  It 
seemed  to  be  divided  into  apartments 
after  the  foreign  fashion.  The  door  had 
been  opened  by  Halloran's  groom,  whom 
I  recognized ;  and  in  the  passage  I 
caught  a  momentary  glimpse  of  a  face — 
that  of  a  servant  in  black — which  I  felt 
sure  was  the  same  repulsive  countenance 
that  belonged  to  the  person  who  as 
sumed  to  marry  us.  Then  the  whole 
base  plot  lay  bare  before  me,  and 
I  knew  that  I  had  been  brought,  in 
trance,  to  Captain  Halloran's  private 
apartments." 

"  Good  Heavens  !"  exclaimed  Celia. 
«  What  didjOM  do  ?" 

Then  Ellinor  narrated  to  her  friend  the 
substance  of  the  scene  with  which  our 
readers  are  already  familiar,  ending  with 
her  escape,  by  Terence's,  aid,  into  the 
street. 

"  And  then  ?"  asked  Celia,  breath 
lessly. 

"  I  hurried,  I  knew  not  whither,  pass 
ing  through  street  after  street,  and  when 
darkness  came  on  I  found  myself  in  a 
part  of  the  city  quite  different  from  any 
I  had  ever  seen — the  streets  narrow  and 
dingy,  the  houses  poor  and  dirty.  It 
must  have  been  some  disreputable  region, 
for,  to  my  terror,  I  was  several  times  ac 
costed  in  a  shocking  manner  by  vulgar 
men,  from  whom  I  had  the  greatest  diffi 
culty  in  escaping.  The  bystanders  offer 
ed  me  no  aid  :  indeed,  my  alarm  seemed 
to  afford  them  amusement.  Or  perhaps 
it  was  my  dress,  so  utterly  out  of  place 
there.  One  ruffian,  after  talking  to  me 
in  the  most  revolting  terms,  attempted 
by  force  to  thrust  me  into  a  horrible- 
looking  house.  My  screams  brought  a 
policeman  to  the  spot.  At  first  he  seem 
ed  disposed  to  treat  me  with  indignity 
also.  But  when  I  explained  to  him  that 
I  had  lost  my  way,  he  became  more  re 
spectful  and  offered  to  take  me  to  the 
nearest  stand  for  coaches.  On  the  way 
a  desperate  resolve  took  possession  of 
me.  What  explanation  to  my  relatives 
was  now  possible  ?  I  could  not  face 


my  guardian  and  that  insolent  sister  of 
his. 

'  Anywhere,  anywhere, 
Out  of  the  world!' 

— these  were  the  terrible  lines  that  beat 
themselves  into  my  brain.  Yet  I  strug 
gled  for  control  as  long  as  I  was  with 
the  policeman,  entering  a  cab,  and,  when 
he  asked  where  the  man  should  drive 
to,  giving  my  guardian's  address,  in 
Grafton  street,  Piccadilly.  Soon  after, 
however,  I  stopped  the  cabman,  asked 
which  was  the  nearest  of  the  bridges,  and 
bade  him  drive  there.  He  hesitated, 
muttering  something  about  his  fare.  But 
when  I  produced  a  sovereign  and  in 
sisted,  he  turned.  I  shuddered  fearfully 
when  I  found  he  had  obeyed  my  order. 
I  seemed  to  hear  the  rebuke :  « You  fear 
the  face  of  man  and  affront  the  presence 
of  God  !'  I  had  my  hand  on  the  cab 
window  to  lower  it  and  call  the  driver. 
But  Despair  prevailed,  ever  recalling, 
with  frighful  iteration,  the  lines  : 

'  Mad  from  life's  history, 
Glad  to  death's  mystery 

(Swift  to  be  hurled— 
Anywhere,  anywhere, 
Out  of  the  world  1' 

I  was  beside  myself.  I  felt  as  if  I  were 
pursued  by  the  Furies.  Oh  forgive  me, 
darling  !" 

Celia  could  not  reply  for  weeping. 

"It's  cruel,  dear  child,"  Ellinor  re 
sumed,  "  to  grieve  you  so,  but  the  rest  is 
soon  told.  In  the  very  act  of  springing 
from  the  bridge  a  friendly  hand  held  me 
back.  I  turned,  indignant  at  first,  but 
when  I  met  Mr.  Creighton's  honest,  man 
ly  face,  and  heard  a  few  words  of  gentle 
expostulation,  the  evil  spirit  was  exor 
cised.  Yet  I  was  scarcely  'clothed  in 
my  right  mind.'  The  remaining  events 
of  that  night  are  phantasmagorial.  I 
know  we  were  roughly  repulsed  from  sev 
eral  doors  where  Mr.  Creighton  sought 
to  obtain  a  room  for  me.  At  last  I 
found  myself  in  bed.  Toward  morning 
I  sank  into  a  sort  of  stupor,  from  which 
a  knock  at  my  chamber  door  aroused 
me.  I  had  lain  down  in  my  clothes,  so 
I  rose  and  unlocked  the  door.  It  was 
Mr.  Creighton.  He  begged  me,  though 
it  was  early  morning,  to  come  with  him 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


at  once,  as  he  had  secured  a  lodging  for 
me.  As  he  hurried  me  into  the  street, 
I  found  that  we  were  leaving  a  hotel, 
and  I  turned  for  an  explanation,  asking 
him  where  I  had  passed  the  night.  He 
is  one  of  God's  noblemen,  Celia,  with 
the  true  instincts  of  God's  nobility.  I 
shall  never  forget  how  he  spoke  to  me 
— with  such  delicate  forbearance,  with 
such  tender  regard  for  my  feelings. 

<  Forgive  me,    young  lady,'  he   said  :  <  it 
was    an    absolute    necessity,    since    the 
alternative  was   that  we   should   remain 
all  night  in   the  street.     I  had  to  give 
you  my  room.'     Then,  when  he  saw  how 
dreadfully  embarrassed  I  was,  he  added  : 

<  You  are  too  weak  now  to  tell  me  by 
what   terrible    cruelty   or    injustice    you 
were   brought   to   despair,   and   perhaps 
you  may  never  think  me  worthy  to  know. 
But  to-morrow  I    shall  call   to  ask  if  I 
can  take  a  message  to  your  friends  or 
serve  you  in  any  way.'     All  the  rest  of 
his  conduct  was  of  a  piece  with  this. 
When  he  found  I  was  resolved  never  to 
see  my  relatives  again,  but  to  maintain 
myself  by  needlework,  and  ,that  I  posi 
tively  refused  to  accept  money  from  him, 
he  refrained  from  visiting  me  except  at 
considerable  intervals  ;  and  when,  after 
several   weeks,  he  was   obliged  to  leave 
London,  he  told  me  he  had  written  about 
me  to  his  uncle,  an  old  Quaker  gentle 
man,  who  would  visit  London  in  a  month 
or   two.      I    told   you   the   rest.     When 
Mr.  Creighton  took  leave   I   don't  think 
I   said  one  grateful  word,  but    I    know 
Elizabeth  Browning's  glorious  lines  were 
in  my  heart : 

'  Thee  I  do  not  thank  at  all : 
I  but  thank  God,  who  made  thee  what  thou  art— 
So  wholly  godlike.' 

I  don't  know  which  I  venerate  most- 
Mr.  Creighton,  young  as  he  is,  or  that 
saint-like  old  man,  Uncle  Williams,  as  I 
used  to  call  him.  They  did  far  more 
than  to  save  me  from  suicide  :  they  re 
conciled  me  to  life  in  a  world  where 
such  honor  and  loving-kindness  are  to 
be  found." 

Celia  took  the  weeping  girl  in  her 
arms  and  kissed  her  again  and  again. 
«  They  were  as  kind  to  me  as  to  you," 
she  said  :  "  they  sent  me  a  sister." 


CHAPTER   XLIII. 
EVENTS    THICKEN. 

"  So  we  grew  together, 
Like  to  a  double  cherry,  seeming  parted." 

Midsummer  Night's  Dream. 

AFTER  a  time,  when  the  two  girls  had 
become  quieter,  Celia  fell  into  a  reverie. 
When  she  looked  up  and  saw  Ellinor's 
eyes  on  her  with  that  wonderful  look  of 
love  they  sometimes  wore,  she  said,  "  I 
keep  thinking  — but  that's  foolish  and 
ungrateful  too  —  if  you  only  were  my 
real,  real  sister." 

"Ah,  that  reminds  me  —  I've  some 
thing  to  tell  you,  Celia.  It's  almost  as 
strange  as  that  dismal  story  of  mine,  but 
it's  not  gloomy.  Last  evening  I  picked 
up  a  little  book  —  a  wonderful  book, 
Celia;  you  must  read  it — Isaac  Taylor's 
Physical  Theory  of  Another  Life.  Con 
stance  had  once  given  me  a  copy  of  it, 
and  it  brought  her  forcibly  to  my  mind. 
When  I  went  to  sleep,  thinking  of  her, 
there  came  to  me  such  a  vivid  dream. 
I  can  scarcely  yet  believe  that  I  didn't 
actually  see  my  darling  standing  beside 
the  bed." 

"  She  appeared  to  you  ?" 
"As  in  very  life,  Celia,  except  that 
she  seemed  idealized,  etherealized.    How 
beautiful  she  was  !" 

«  Did  she  say  anything  ?" 
"  Not  at  first,  but  above  her  head — it 
seemed  in  letters  of  light  —  were  the 
words :  <  Bring  forth  the  blind  people 
that  have  eyes.'  (I  found  the  text  this 
morning  in  Isaiah.)  Then  I  saw  in  the 
distance,  but  gradually  enlarging  or  ap 
proaching  (I  couldn't  tell  which),  two 
figures— you,  Celia,  and,  strange  to  say ! 
myself.  I  —  or  rather  my  <  double  '— 
seemed  groping  as  if  to  touch  you. 
Then  I  thought  Constance  turned,  raised 
her  hands  as  in  blessing  over  us,  and  I 
heard,  in  a  tone  that  went  to  my  heart, 
the  word  *  SISTER  !'  With  a  start  I 
awoke,  and  it  was  long  before  I  could 
convince  myself  that  Constance  wasn't 
there." 

"What  could  it  mean,  Ellie  ?"  hesi 
tatingly. 

Ellinor  smiled:  "That  I  shall  be 
blind,  and  that  you  will  be  to  me  a  sister 
and  a  blessing." 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


237 


"  And  you  smile  ?" 

"  Constance  smiled  when  she  turned 
and  blessed  us,  though  I  had  to  grope 
for  you,  dear  child." 

"But  I'm  not  your  real  sister;  so 
maybe  you  won't  be  really  blind." 

«  As  God  wills." 

"  And  if  God  does  will  it,  I'll  try  to 
be  <eyes  to  the  blind  ;'  but,  at  all  events, 
you  must  be  my  real  cousin — my  cousin 
Ethan's  wife,  Ellie  dear.  I  don't  think 
he  would  live  if  you  were  to  refuse  him." 

Supper  was  late  that  evening  at  Dr. 
Meyrac's.  They  were  waiting  for  Ethan 
Hartland,  who  had  been  invited  to  join 
them,  but  had  first  to  go  on  business  to 
Mount  Sharon. 

When  they  were  seated,  and  Ethan 
had  been  telling  them  the  news  from  the 
county-seat,  Ellinor  suddenly  exclaimed, 

"  Who  put  out  the  lamp  ?  Or  was  it 
the  oil  that  failed  ?  But  in  a  single  mo 
ment — how  strange  !" 

No  one  replied.  They  all  turned,  in 
amazement,  to  Miss  Ethelridge.  She 
was  not  in  the  habit  of  jesting,  and  the 
look  on  her  face  was  of  unmistakable 
surprise. 

"  What  did  you  say  ?"  Ethan  began, 
after  a  pause.  Ellinor  looked  at  him — 
at  least  her  eyes,  bright  with  intelligence, 
were  directed,  inquiringly,  to  his  face. 
Was  it  possible  ?  His  very  heart  stood 
still  at  the  thought. 

"  Ellinor,  dear  child,"  said  Dr.  Mey- 
rac  in  French,  « I  would  see  you  a  mo 
ment  in  my  study."  He  went  up  to  her 
and  took  her  hand  :  "  Shall  I  conduct 
you  ?" 

Ellinor's  mind  was  in  a  maze,  but  she 
assented.  "What  is  it,  doctor?"  she 
asked  as  he  led  her  off. 

"  Is  she  ill,  mamma  ?"  said  Lucille 
Meyrac. 

"  Alas,  my  child  !  It  is  as  your  father 
has  feared.  But  how  very,  very  sudden  ! 
And  without  the  least  pain,  for  she  evi 
dently  thought  not  of  it." 

"  Blind,  mamma  ?"  And  tn*e  girl 
turned  pale  as  a  sheet. 

"  I  remember  that  your  father  once 
told  me  of  just  such  a  case — in  some 
town  of  the  provinces.  But  I  was  in 


credulous.  It  is  rare  :  it  usually  occurs 
by  degrees." 

"Is  it  paralysis  of  the  optic  nerve  ?" 
Ethan  forced  himself  to  ask. 

"  Yes.     Poor  dear  mignonne  !" 

Then  they  were  silent.  After  a  time 
the  doctor  and  Ellinor  returned,  and  he 
assisted  her  to  her  seat.  Ethan's  bitter 
grief  gave  way  to  wonder  and  admiration. 
Not  a  trace  of  sorrow  on  that  placid  face. 
Could  she  not  see  him  ? — for  the  brilliant 
eyes  turned  to  his,  he  actually  thought, 
as  if  to  discover  how  he  bore  it.  But 
he  knew  now.  It  had  come  in  very 
deed  !  How  glad  he  was  she  didn't  see 
his  tears  !  Did  she  not  see  them  ? — 
for  she  said,  in  a  tone  that  sank  into  his 
heart  of  hearts,  " Do  not  grieve,  dear 
friend.  It  is  a  relief  to  me  that  it  is  all 
over." 

Dr.  Meyrac  was  often  abrupt,  and 
now  and  then  somewhat  despotic,  but  he 
was  a  man  of  instinctive  delicacy.  He 
had  found  out  how  it  stood  with  Ethan 
and  Ellinor,  and  he  so  contrived  it  that 
when  supper  was  cleared  away  they  were 
left  alone.  "It  is  he  who  must  be  her 
physician  henceforth,  my  dear  Elise," 
he  whispered  to  his  wife.  "See  to  it 
that  no  one  intrudes  on  them." 

Nor  must  we.  When,  at  the  end  of 
an  hour,  Ethan  rose  to  go,  Ellinor  said : 
"  To-morrow  evening,  dear,  dear  Ethan. 
Cannot  you  wait  for  my  decision  till 
to-morrow  ?" 

He  kissed  her  fervently  and  tore  him 
self  away,  without  trusting  his  voice  to 
answer. 

Immediately  after  breakfast  next  morn 
ing,  Creighton  called  at  Mrs.  Hartland's 
and  sent  up  his  card  to  Celia.  She 
came  down  at  once,  but  with  her  hat  and 
shawl. 

"  You  were  going  out,  Miss  Pem 
broke  ?" 

"To  see  poor  Ellie.  You  have 
heard—" 

"  Yes.  But  I  have  something  to  tell 
you  that  you  ought  to  know  before  you 
go.  It  relates  to  her." 

The  evening  before,  Ethan  had,  with 
difficulty,  persuaded  Celia  not  to  see 
Ellinor  that  night.  When  she  came 


338 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


down  to  meet  Creighton  she  had  been 
nervously  impatfent,  and,  almost  uncon 
sciously,  had  remained  standing.  But 
his  words  recalled  her.  Laying  aside 
hat  and  shawl,  she  seated  herself.  "  I'm 
afraid  I've  been  very  rude,  Mr.  Creigh 
ton,"  she  said,  blushing  a  little  :  "  I  shall 
be  most  happy  to  hear  what  you  have  to 
say." 

Our  readers  know  what  it  was.  Celia 
felt  as  if  she  were  dreaming.  She 
scarcely  took  it  in  at  first.  She  asked 
him  again  and  again  if  he  was  sure,  quite 
sure  ;  and  when  the  details  he  gave  her, 
including  Terence's  testimony,  left  no 
longer  a  doubt  on  her  mind,  she  sud 
denly  recalled  all  that  Creighton  had 
done,  and  for  whom. 

Tears  started  to  her  eyes,  and  she 
gave  him  both  her  hands:  "I  know 
what  a  good  man  you  are,  Mr.  Creigh 
ton  :  she  told  me  yesterday.  And  you 
saved  my  sister's  life." 

Creighton  blushed  like  a  girl,  but  he 
turned  it  off,  asking,  "  Will  you  tell  her, 
or  shall  I?"  As  Celia  hesitated,  he 
added  :  "  It  will  come  best  from  you." 
Then,  smiling,  «  You  are  not  sorry  now 
that  I  detained  you,  Miss  Pembroke  ?" 

All  the  way  home  Creighton  kept 
thinking  of  the  look  she  gave  him  in  re 
ply.  But  gratitude  is  not  love. 

And  what  were  Celia's  thoughts  as 
she  sped  toward  Dr.  Meyrac's  ?  They 
were  mingled  still,  for  a  time,  with  in 
credulity.  Sudden,  unlooked-for  joy, 
like  some  unexpected  stroke  of  misfor 
tune,  often  comes  before  us,  for  the  mo 
ment,  as  incredible.  Celia  seemed  to 
herself  almost  as  walking  in  trance,  and 
she  half  feared  to  wake  and  behold  it  a 
dream.  Had  the  news  been  that  her 
lawsuit  was  gained  and  a  certain  forty 
thousand  dollars  still  her  own,  she  would 
have  received  it  joyfully,  of  course,  but 
calmly,  and  she  would  have  believed  in 
it  at  once.  But  this  was  something  be 
yond  her  wildest  anticipations — like  some 
gift  in  a  fairy  tale.  Would  it  vanish 
away  ? 

No.  That  mysterious  being  whom 
she  had  heard  of  as  her  father's  first 
wife  had  been  Ellie's  mother.  Never 
one  happy  day  at  home,  Ellinor  had 


said.  Ah  !  that  explained  her  father's 
flight.  But  he  must  have  loved  Ellie. 
She  thought  of  him  taking  his  first-born 
in  his  arms,  kissing  her,  weeping  over 
her,  perhaps,  before  he  left ;  grieving 
after  her,  too,  no  doubt,  even  when  a 
second  daughter  came.  How  strange  it 
all  was  ! 

Another  apology  she  found  for  her 
father's  conduct.  Though  he  had  aban 
doned  his  little  daughter,  still  she  re 
mained  at  first,  as  he  knew,  with  her 
mother  ;  and  afterward,  as  he  must  also 
have  known,  in  the  care  of  one  who  was 
far  more  than  that  mother  had  ever  been 
to  her.  She  was  well  provided  for,  too. 
He  had  given  the  mother  and  child  half 
his  fortune. 

A  new  train  of  thought !  That  forty 
thousand  dollars  would  not  go  to  prof 
ligate  Sir  Charles  Conynghame  now. 
Eliot  Creighton  had  come  that  morning 
specially  to  talk  to  her  on  that  branch 
of  the  subject.  But  at  first,  when  he 
saw  her  wild  joy  at  the  discovery  of  a 
sister,  he  could  not  find  it  in  his  heart 
to  speak  to  her  of  money.  And  after 
ward  that  look  of  Celia's,  which  he  car 
ried  home  with  him,  put  it  out  of  his 
head.  A  poor  head  for  a  lawyer,  it  must 
have  been  :  he  was  ashamed  to  think  of 
it  when  he  got  home.  But  Celia  thread 
ed  her  legal  way  without  his  aid.  Creigh 
ton  had  already  told  her  that  the  guard 
ian  was  heir-at-law  only  in  case  the  ward 
could  not  be  found.  Ellinor  was  the 
heir.  The  sole  heir  ?  Never  mind : 
time  enough  to  think  of  that  by  and  by, 
for  just  then  she  reached  Dr.  Meyrac's 
garden  gate. 

At  the  first  moment  when  she  opened 
the  blind  girl's  .chamber  door,  and  saw 
the  large  resplendent  eyes  fixed  on  her 
with  all  their  wonted  love,  the  arms 
stretched  out  in  welcome  and  the  face 
calm — yes,  actually  with  a  smile  on  it ! — 
she  was  bewildered.  But  when  she  sat 
down  beside  her,  and  Ellinor  put  one 
arm  round  her  and  passed  the  other 
slowly,  gently  over  her  face,  with  a 
slight  start  as  she  detected  the  tears — 
then  the  reality  burst  on  Celia  at  once. 
Never,  never  again  to  see  the  sun  or  the 
spring  flowers  or  the  face  of  a  friend ! 


BEYOND  TPIE  BREAKERS. 


239 


Morning  and  night,  the  glorious  break 
of  day  and  the  peace-breathing  twilight, 
all  one  changeless  blank  now !  Over 
the  whole  fair  external  world  the  black 
ness  of  darkness  for  ever !  She  had 
been  told  of  it  the  evening  before  :  she 
had  lain  awake  half  the  night  thinking 
of  it ;  but— 

"  Because  things  seen  are  greater  than  things  heard" — 

she  had  never  felt  it,  it  had  never  be 
come  part  of  her  consciousness,  till  now. 
She  had  come  to  tell  her  sister  the  in 
credible  secret,  but  even  that,  for  the 
moment,  passed  from  her  mind.  "  Ellie, 
Ellie  !"  was  all  she  could  say  ;  but  the 
blind  can  detect  sobs  as  well  as  tears  ; 
and  no  words  could  have  told  half  as 
much  as  that  warm  embrace. 

After  the  first  gust  of  grief,  however, 
Celia  struggled  bravely  for  composure. 
Ellinor's  silent  caresses,  too,  produced 
their  usual  soothing  effect.  Then,  with 
returning  tranquillity,  came  back  to  her 
also  the  astounding,  the  rapturous  news. 
The  long  swell  after  the  tempest  was 
there  still,  but  the  sun  broke  out  on  it. 

— The  sun,  warm  and  cheering.  Her 
heart  overflowed  under  its  glow.  "  Ellie," 
she  said,  and  the  blind  girl  started  :  she 
felt  that  there  was  joy  in  the  tone — 
"dear  Ellie,  you  don't  know  what  I've 
got  to  tell  you.  It  would  have  made 
me — it  has  made  me — oh  so  glad  !" 

"  Then  it  will  make  me  glad,  too, 
dear  child.  Tell  it  me." 

"  I  have  a  right  to  take  care  of  you 
now.  Till  you're  married,  Ellie,  no 
body — nobody  in  all  the  world — will  have 
the  same  right." 

"What  is  it,  Celia?— what  is  it?" 
The  eyes  turned  eagerly,  restlessly,  to 
Celia's  face,  as  if,  for  the  first  time, 
the  soul  within  were  impatient  of  the 
darkness.  . 

"Your  mother  thought  herself  a  widow. 
She  was  not.  Your  father — our  father, 
Ellie!  think!  —  our  father  came  to  this 
country  and  changed  his  name  from  Tal- 
bot  to  Pembroke." 

"  To  Pembroke  !"  Celia  feared,  for 
a  moment,  that  Ellinor  would  faint,  she 
grew  so  deadly  pale :  the  conflicting 
emotions  of  the  last  twenty-four  hours 


had  sorely  tried  her  nerves.  But  the 
color  gradually  returned  to  her  cheeks, 
the  sightless  eyes  lighted  up,  and  a  look 
came  over  h£r  face  such  as  Celia  had 
never  seen  there  before.  It  awed  her. 
It  seemed  to  her  the  expression  of  heav 
enly  joy. 

"  God  is  good  !"  Ellinor  said  in  a  low 
tone — "oh  how  good  !  In  man's  hands 
that's  terrible  !  but  in  His —  Then 
her  lips  moved  as  in  prayer. 

Yet  after  a  time  there  was  a  sudden 
revulsion.  She  came  back  to  this  lower 
world  again,  all  the  feelings  of  her  im 
pulsive  nature  breaking  over  the  bounds 
within  which  she  had  schooled  them  to 
abide.  Her  joy  was  exultant.  Triumph 
was  the  expression  Celia  now  read  in 
her  face.  Ellinor  took  the  astonished 
girl  in  her  arms,  kissed  her  passionately 
again  and  again,  laughing  and  crying 
over  her  the  while.  "  Sister  !"  she  re 
peated — »  sister  !  my  own,  my  own  !" 

Then  the  current  of  her  excited  feel 
ings  changed  once  more.  "  Constance 
knew  it,"  she  said,  humbly  :  "  she  knew 
all  that  awaited  me.  Really  blind,  Celia ; 
and  this  my  real,  real  sister  !"  Grad 
ually  the  wild  excitement  subsided,  and 
she  added  :  "  God  has  given  you  your 
wish,  dear  child,  and  we  shall  be  so 
happy  !" 

The  first  day  of  blindness  !  Yet  it 
was  said  from  the  very  heart. 

When  they  had  sat  together  a  little 
space  in  silence,  Ellinor  resumed  :  "  I 
think  you  know  I  would  never  tell  you 
anything  but  the  very  truth." 

"  I  don't  believe  in  what  I  see  and 
feel  more  than  I  do  in  your  word." 

"  I'm  very  glad  of  that.  Then  see, 
dear  !  In  the  last  few  hours  two  things 
have  happened  to  me.  I  have  become 
blind — I  dare  say  for  life  ;  and  I've  found 
out  that  the  very  girl  I  would  have 
chosen  out  of  all  the  world — out  of  all 
the  world,  Celia — is  my  own,  actual  sis 
ter.  Do  you  think  that  I  would  take 
back  my  sight  on  condition  that  I  should 
remain  all  my  life  blind  to  what  you've 
told  me  just  now  ?  I've  gained  far  more 
than  I've  lost.  As  God  is  my  witness, 
I  do  most  religiously  believe  it." 

»  Oh,  Ellie,  how  can  you  talk  so  ?" 


243 


BEYOND    THE   BREAKERS. 


A  knock  at  the  door,  and  Dr.  Mey- 
rac  came  in  :  "I  think  my  patient  had 
better  keep  out  of  church  this  morning, 
Mademoiselle  Ce'lie.  We  must  have  her 
a  little  accustomed  to  her  new  phase  of 
life  before  she  goes  into  public." 

They  assented,  and  then  they  told 
him  the  news.  He  was  much  surprised, 
of  course,  but  he  received  it  quietly,  with 
French  politeness  :  "  I  know  not  which 
of  the  two  is  the  more  fortunate.  You 
are  worthy  of  each  other,  my  dear  young 
ladies." 

Then  the  business  aspect  of  the  affair 
struck  him  :  "  Ah,  it  is  charming.  That 
good-for-nothing  of  a  Cranstoun  is  check 
mated." 

For  the  first  time  that  day  Celia  saw 
a  painful  expression  cross  her  sister's 
face,  but  Ellinor  said  nothing  until  the 
doctor,  after  inviting  Celia  to  dinner,  left 
the  room.  Then  she  took  Celia's  hand : 
"  Sister,  I  see  what  good  Dr.  Meyrac 
means.  It  is  to  Sir  Charles  Conyng- 
hame  that  Cranstoun  has  written.  If 
suit  is  commenced,  it  will  be  in  Sir 
Charles'  name." 

"  It  has  been  commenced." 

"  Ah  !  Then  my  name  can  be  used 
to  arrest  or  defeat  it ;  but  it  will  be  a 
mere  form.  We  know  well  enough — 
Mr.  Creighton  is  convinced — that — that 
father  made  a  will,  witnessed  by  Cran 
stoun,  leaving  his  American  property  to 
your  mother  and  you." 

"  He  thinks  so — that's  all  :  there's  no 
proof  of  it." 

"Of course  it's  so.  He  knew — or  he 
thought — that  I  was  provided  for.  We 
must  respect  his  wishes,  Celia." 

"  Sister  Ellie,  you  can't  always  have 
your  own  way,  even  if—"  She  com 
menced  the  sentence  playfully,  but  broke 
off  with  a  deep  sigh. 

«  Even  if  I  am  blind.     Well,  dear  ?" 

Celia  sat  lost  in  thought  for  a  brief 
space  ;  then  she  looked  up  :  "  There's 
nobody  you  respect  more  than  Eliot 
Creighton." 

«  Nobody." 

"  You  didn't  hear  his  election-speech : 
I  did.  That,  man  wouldn't  swerve  one 
hair's  breadth  from  the  right  for  favor  of 
man  or  woman." 


"  He's  the  very  soul  of  honor." 

"  Well,  Ellie  darling,  there's  one  thing 
— only  one — that  we  two  sha'n't  agree 
about.  Let  us  refer  it  to  him  and  abide 
his  decision." 

After  some  further  talk,  in  which  Celia 
stood  her  ground  resolutely,  her  sister 
assented  ;  and  it  was  agreed  that  after 
dinner  they  would  visit  Mrs.  Creighton. 
"  I  can't  see  my  way,"  Ellinor  said,  "  but 
I  shall  be  love-led." 

They  found  mother  and  son  at  home. 
Mrs.  Creighton  was  a  charming  old  lady 
— charming  and  handsome  too  —  with 
bright,  tender  eyes  undimmed  by  her 
fifty  years.  It  was  touching  to  see  her 
reception  of  the  blind  girl.  If  she  had 
been  her  own  daughter,  she  could  not 
have  folded  her  in  her  arms  with  warmer 
tokens  of  affection.  And  she  was  de 
lighted  when  the  sisters — each  setting 
forth  the  rights  of  the  other — submitted 
their  difference  to  her  son  as  referee. 

"  Wise  girls  !"  she  said.  " You're 
too  romantic,  both  of  you,  to  be  trusted. 
I  haven't  quite  made  up  my  mind  which 
of  you  two  I  like  best ;  and  I'm  not 
sure  that  Eliot  has.  So  I  think  you 
may  trust  him." 

Ellinor  thought  she  knew  very  well 
which  was  the  favorite,  but  she  did  not 
say  so.  And  it  was  on  her  lips  to  re 
ply,  "  Mr.  Creighton  might  be  trusted  to 
arbitrate  between  his  best  friend  and  his 
worst  enemy,"  but  neither  did  she  make 
that  remark.  She  quietly  awaited  Creigh- 
ton's  answer. 

"I  dare  say  mother's  right" — he  hes 
itated  a  moment,  just  a  little  bit  abashed, 
then  suddenly  closed  the  sentence — "in 
what  she  says  about  romance.  The  mat 
ter  ought  to  be  decided  at  once,  and  I'm 
afraid  it  can't  be  without  help.  You 
honor  me  very  highly,  young  ladies  ; 
and,  since  you  wish  it,  I'll  do  my  best." 

He  sent  them  his  decision  that  even 
ing.  It  read  as  follows  : 

"OPINION 

in  the  Case  of  Ellirwr  Ethelridge  Tal- 

bot  and  Celia  Pembroke. 
"  Proof  that    Miss   Talbot   lives   and 
establishing    her    identity,    sent    to    Sir 
Charles  Conynghame,  will  probably  in- 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


241 


duce  him  to  withdraw  his  suit.  If  not, 
the  identity  can  be  established  and  he 
will  certainly  be  defeated. 

"Then  the  law  of  Ohio  will  regulate 
the  case.  I  believe  that,  by  that  law, 
Miss  Talbot  and  Miss  Pembroke  are 
equal  heirs.  But  as  there  has  been  no 
decision  in  point  by  the  Supreme  Court, 
I  may  be  mistaken.  Miss  Talbot  might 
possibly  be  declared  sole  heir. 

"  I  do  not  doubt  that  the  late  Fred 
erick  Pembroke  (or  Talbot)  left  a  will, 
but  it  will  probably  never  be  found  ;  and 
meanwhile  the  legal  effect  is  the  same 
as  if  it  did  not  exist.  That  will  did 
probably,  but  not  certainly,  make  Miss 
Pembroke  sole  heir  of  the  American 
property. 

"  Under  these  uncertainties,  I  think 
the  matter  ought  to  be  decided  accord 
ing  to  what  we  may  reasonably  conclude 
to  have  been  the  wish  of  said  Frederick 
Pembroke  (or  Talbot). 

"  But  it  was  evidently  his  intention  to 
leave  half  his  property  to  each  of  his 
daughters.  My  opinion  is,  therefore, 
that  each  sister  should  take  half  of  the 
American  property,  and  that  if  any  por 
tion  of  the  property  now  held  by  Sir 
Charles  Conynghame  as  executor  of  the 
late  Mrs.  Talbot  and  guardian  of  her 
daughter  should  hereafter  be  recovered, 
that  also  should  be  equally  divided  be 
tween  the  sisters  aforesaid. 

«  (Signed)        ELIOT  CREIGHTON." 

Sydenham,  who  had  called  to  see  El- 
linor,  was  at  Dr.  Meyrac's  when  this 
document  arrived.  It  was  submitted  to 
him  as  Celia's  guardian,  and  he  heartily 
approved  it. 

So  that  affair,  as  such  differences  al 
ways  can  be  between  reasonable  people, 
was  settled  at  once. 

And  this  opinion  of  Creighton  helped 
Ellinor  to  decide  in  another  matter  more 
important  than  money.  Ethan  came  for 
his  answer.  Celia  had  half  won  his 
cause  in  the  course  of  the  day.  "We 
frail  mortals  are  never  satisfied,"  she  had 
said  to  Ellinor  :  "  prosperity  spoils  us — 
the  more  we  get  the  niore  we  long  for. 
I  found  a  sister :  now  I  want  a  brother 
too." 

16 


Ellinor  had  been  arguing  herself  into 
the  conviction  that  to  one  of  moderate 
means  like  Ethan  a  blind  wife  would  be 
a  pecuniary  burden  such  as  he  ought 
not  to  bear.  That  scruple  was  removed  : 
she  would  not  come  to  him  empty-hand 
ed  ;  and  whereas  her  lover's  fate,  till 
then,  had  been  trembling  in  the  balance, 
now  the  scale  on  which  she  had  piled 
her  doubts  and  scruples  kicked  the 
beam. 

Thus  in  the  course  of  twenty -four 
hours  Mary  Ellinor  Ethelridge  Talbot 
lost  her  sight,  found  a  sister,  acquired 
twenty  thousand  dollars  and  became  an 
affianced  bride. 

Which  may  we  fittingly  do — rejoice  or 
condole  with  her  ? 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 
GOING   HOME. 

"  So  Ann  still  lov'd  :  it  was  her  doom 

To  love  in  shame  and  sorrow  : 
Charles  cair»e  no  more  ;  but,  '  He  will  come,' 

She  said,  'to-morrow.' 
Oh  yet  for  her  deep  bliss  remained  ; 

She  dreamed  he  came  and  kissed  her ; 
And  in  that  hour  the  angels  gained 
Another  sister." 

EBENEZER  ELLIOTT. 

SUMMER  passed  and  part  of  autumn. 
During  that  time  two  items  of  news  only 
broke  the  even  tenor  of  events  in  our 
quiet  village.  First :  a  report  came  that 
an  uncle  of  Mowbray,  who  had  avoided 
all  intercourse  with  him  and  his  mother, 
was  dead  and  had  left  Evelyn  a  fortune 
which  rumor  estimated  at  a  quarter  of  a 
million  of  dollars.  Second  :  Creighton 
had  started  for  London  :  gossipry  said 
to  see  about  another  fortune  in  the  hands 
of  a  rich  English  nobleman,  who,  as 
Terence  O'Reilly  had  found  out,  was 
Miss  Ethelridge's  cousin. 

Up  to  the  time  when  Mowbray  went 
on  a  five  or  six  weeks'  visit  to  New 
York,  on  the  business  alluded  to,  he  and 
Ellen  had  met  every  few  days.  It  ex 
cited  no  remark,  for  their  engagement 
had  become  public,  and  such  was  the 
habit  of  the  place. 

When  Mowbray  returned,  it  was 
known  that  he  had  been  put  in  posses 
sion  of  the  uncle's  legacy — not  quite  as 


242 


BEYOND    THE   BREAKERS. 


large  as  was  reported,  but  a  comfortable 
fortune — a  hundred  and  eighty  thousand 
dollars,  besides  a  handsome  dwelling, 
richly  furnished,  in  Philadelphia. 

Then  village  gossips  alleged  that  the 
meetings  between  the  lovers  became  less 
and  less  frequent  ;  but  this  might  have 
been  because  Movvbray  was  busy  selling 
their  house,  furniture  and  other  posses 
sions.  Early  in  October  his  mother 
and  he  left  Chiskauga :  it  was  said  to 
return  no  more. 

The  evening  before  they  went  an 
incident  happened  which  Mowbray  was 
never  able  to  explain.  «He  had  been  to 
take  leave  of  a  friend  who  lived  beyond 
Mrs.  Hartland's  house,  a  mile  out  of 
town,  and  he  was  returning  about  ten 
o'clock.  There  was  a  new  moon,  but 
the  sky  was  clouded.  Just  as  he  was 
crossing  a  street  running  west,  that  had 
been  opened  half  a  mile  from  town,  but 
was  not  yet  built  up,  he  heard  what 
seemed  a  rifle-shot  close  by,  and  for  a 
moment  he  thought  he  was  hit.  But, 
removing  his  hat  and  touching  himself 
all  over,  he  found  he  was  mistaken.  The 
shot,  he  thought,  had  come  from  behind 
a  board  fence  to  a  grain-field  on  the  right 
of  the  cross  street ;  but  when  he  went 
up  to  it  there  was  no  one  to  be  seen  in 
the  field.  He  did  imagine,  for  a  moment, 
that  he  could  distinguish  a  figure  gliding 
along  at  some  distance  close  to  the  fence, 
but  a  second  look  dissipated  that  impres 
sion  :  he  could  see  nothing  stirring. 

When  he  reached  home  he  went 
straight  to  his  room,  having  some  pack 
ing  still  to  do.  As  he  deposited  his  hat 
on  a  table  he  started.  Two  holes,  evi 
dently  from  a  good-sized  rifle  ball,  right 
through  the  hat,  about  two  inches  below 
the  crown  !  He  sank  on  a  chair.  "  I 
•thought  I  felt  something  graze  my  hair," 
he  said,  half  aloud.  Conscience  sug- 
.gested  a  name,  but  a  little  reflection 
caused  him  to  reject  it.  "  She  refused 
him,"  was  his  thought;  "and  then  these 
country  fellows  might  knock  a  man  down 
in  open  daylight,  but  they're  not  assas 
sins."  It  was  an  hour  before  he  resumed 
his  packing,  and  by  that  time  he  had  re 
solved  not  to  say  a  word  to  any  one 
about  it. 


On  the  second  morning  after  the  de 
parture  of  the  Mowbrays,  Hiram  Goddart 
called  at  Rosebank  much  excited.  Ellen 
Tyler,  he  said,  who  had  seemed  dread 
fully  depressed  the  day  before,  had  not 
spent  the  night  at  home.  She  had  been 
present  at  supper,  though  she  scarcely 
touched  anything,  and  had  put  Willie 
carefully  to  bed,  but  her  own  bed  had 
evidently  been  unoccupied :  she  must 
have  wandered  out,  no  one  knew  whith 
er.  He  had  inquired  at  the  village,  and 
she  had  not  been  heard  of  there.  What 
added  to  his  alarm  was  that  the  night 
had  been  pitch  dark,  and  after  midnight 
there  had  been  several  hours  of  heavy 
rain.  This  had  now  ceased,  but  the 
morning  was  raw  and  gusty. 

When  Mr.  Sydenham  asked  Goddart 
whether  Chewauna  creek  was  high,' the 
poor  fellow  fairly  broke  clown  :  "  Surely 
you  don't  think,  Mr.  Sydenham — "  There 
he  stopped. 

« No,  Hiram  —  not  that.  But  the 
banks  are  steep  and  rocky,  and  she 
might  have  lost  her  way  in  the  rain  and 
darkness." 

It  was  agreed  that  Hiram  should  fol 
low  the  line  of  the  creek,  and  that 
Sydenham  should  explore  the  various 
roads  and  by-paths  leading  from  the 
mill.  At  Leoline's  earnest  instance  her 
father  permitted  her  to  accompany  him. 

Two  or  three  hours  were  spent  in 
fruitless  search.  At  last  Sydenham  be 
thought  him  that  a  few  weeks  before, 
when  following  an  obscure  bridle-path, 
he  had  caught  sight,  in  the  distance,  of 
Ellen  and  Mowbray  seated  under  a 
forest  tree.  Why  it  occurred  to  him 
that  she  might  have  wandered  to  that 
spot  I  cannot  tell  ;  but  there,  in  truth, 
they  found  her.  Insensible,  it  appeared, 
stretched  out  on  the  wet  grass ;  her 
clothing  drenched,  for  she  wore  a  light 
cape  only  over  her  usual  dress ;  her  face 
deadly  pale ;  the  eyes  closed  ;  her  hands 
cold  as  ice.  Outwearied  with  a  struggle 
she  seemed,  and  sunk  to  rest  at  last. 
Beautiful  in  their  calm,  innocent  expres 
sion  were  the  sweet  child-features,  but 
there  were  traces  of  tears  on  the  wan 
cheeks. 

Leoline  sprang  from  her  saddle,  knelt 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


243 


down  and  chafed  the  cold  hands,  a  gust 
of  mingled  sorrow  and  indignation  fill 
ing  her  eyes  the  while.  Movvbray  was 
one  of  the  men  whom  she  could  not 
endure. 

Sydenham  had  taken  the  precaution 
to  bring  with  him  a  blanket  and  a  small 
flask  of  wine.  He  handed  these  to  her: 
"Are  you  afraid  to  stay  here,  my  child, 
till  I  ride  home  for  the  carriage  ?" 

••Afraid,  pupa?  Don't  think  about 
me.  But  how  can  you  manage  to  get  a 
carriage  here  ?" 

"  We  are  only  quarter  of  a  mile  from 
the  road  :  I'll  bring  two  or  three  of  the 
men,  and  we'll  rig  up  a  litter.  If  she 
revives,  give  her  some  of  the  wine." 

Leoline  took  off  a  thick  sack  which 
she  wore,  and  contrived  to  substitute 
it  for  the  thin  cape  that  was  soaked 
through.  Then  she  wrapped  Ellen  up 
as  warmly  as  she  could  in  the  blanket. 
But  the  poor  girl  seemed  chilled  through, 
and  it  was  a  long  time  before  any  symp 
toms  of  returning  animation  showed 
themselves.  Soon  after  that  Sydenham 
returned,  and  with  him  Mr.  Harper. 
Ellen  was  a  favorite  of  the  good  man. 
He  had  heard  in  the  village  vague 
rumors  about  her  disappearance,  and 
had  come  to  Rosebank  seeking  more 
certain  tidings. 

The  movement  of  the  litter  seemed 
gradually  to  revive  the  sufferer.  When 
they  had  lifted  her  into  the  carriage,  Mr. 
Harper,  who  had  been  walking  with 
Sydenham,  came  to  the  door.  <•  Ellen, 
my  child,"  he  said,  "  I  promised  your 
father  the  day  before  he  died  that  if  you 
ever  needed  help  I  would  stand  in  his 
stead.  I'm  going  to  take  you  home  to 
my  little  place." 

Ellen  was  very,  very  feeble,  but  she 
contrived  to  take  the  kind  old  man's 
hand :  "  Oh,  Mr.  Harper,  not  to  your 
house.  I  can't,  indeed  I  can't — I  don't 
deserve  it." 

"  You  felt,  last  night,  as  if  you  couldn't 
trust  in  God.  That  was  wrong.  But 
we  can't  always  do  right.  We  can't 
always  trust  in  God  when  there's  not  a 
gleam  of  light  in  the  darkness."  Then 
he  entered  the  carriage,  arranged  her 
pillows,  sat  down  opposite  to  her  and 


bade  them  drive  on.  « You  need  very 
careful  nursing,  Ellen,  and  good  old 
Barbara  is  an  excellent  nurse."  She 
was  about  to  remonstrate  further,  but  he 
stopped  her:  "When  we  get  home: 
you  mustn't  talk  now."  She  obeyed 
him  as  a  little  child  might,  but  she  wept 
long  and  silently. 

Barbara  had  been  in  Mr.  Harper's 
service  fifteen  years  during  the  life  of 
his  wife  and  twelve  years  since  her  death. 
She  was  at  heart  a  kind  soul,  though  a 
little  stiff  in  some  of  her  notions,  and  her 
reverence  for  her  master  was  unbounded. 
She  received  the  poor  girl  without  ques 
tion,  and  was  unwearied  in  her  endeavors 
to  counteract  the  chill  and  prostration 
caused  by  that  cruel  night  of  storm. 

In  the  course  of  the  day  Hannah 
Clymer  came  to  aid  in  nursing  the  in 
valid.  Dr.  Meyrac,  in  his  report  to 
Harper,  spoke  somewhat  doubtfully : 
"There  is  to  fear  fluxion  de poitrinc — 
vat  we  call  pneumonic — but  it  may  not 
come :  in  two,  tree  days  one  shall  know 
for  sure.  She  seems  very  triste.  Is  it 
that  the  poor  child  grieves  ?  Has  that 
nothing-worth  perhaps  deserted  her  ?" 

«  I  fear  that  he  has,  doctor." 

"  It  is  pity — that  complicates  the  case : 
visout  it  the  pronostic  would  be  favor 
able.  But  if  the  heart  sinks,  who  can 
tell  ?  Seek  to  keep  the  heart  up,  Mon 
sieur  Harper.  You  may  be  better  doc 
tor  than  me." 

In  the  evening  Mr.  Harper  sat  with 
the  patient  while  Barbara  was  preparing 
tea,  and  Ellen  said  to  him  :  « I  hope 
you'll  not  be  troubled  with  me  long,  Mr. 
Harper." 

"  For  your  sake,  Ellen,  I  do  hope  you 
will  speedily  recover  ;  and  if  I  could  see 
you  more  cheerful,  I  should  feel  sure 
of  it." 

She  lay  quite  still  for  some  minutes  ; 
then,  hesitatingly :  » Mr.  Harper,  is  it 
wicked  to  wish  to  die  ?" 

«  We  must  all  die,  but  it  is  our  duty 
to  wait  God's  good  time." 

"  I  think  God  wishes  me  to  die. 
When  people  are  bad  they  kill  them  ; 
and  perhaps  if  I  die,  God  will  think  that 
was  punishment  enough  and  let  me  be 
with  father  and  mother. '  It  would  be  so 


244 


BETOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


good  of  Him  if  He  would  !  That's  all 
I  care  about  now." 

Harper  took  one  of  her  hands  in  both 
his  :  "  Why  do  you  wish  to  die,  dear 
child  ?" 

"  I  am  such  a  great  sinner.  People 
will  never  pardon  me  here.  I  don't  think 
there  ever  was  a  better  man  than  you, 
Mr.  Harper,  but  I've  disgraced  myself, 
and  even  you  can't  forgive  me  :  I  know 
that.  But  I  think  father  will.  Nobody 
was  ever  so  kind  to  me  as  father.  I 
would  tell  him  everything.  Mother  too. 
I  was  such  a  little  girl  when  she  left  me 
with  father,  and  she  won't  expect  much 
from  me,  maybe." 

In  spite  of  his  best  efforts,  the  tears 
were  rising  to  the  old  man's  eyes.  Bar 
bara  came  in  with  tea,  and  Harper,  fear 
ing  over-excitement,  pursued  the  subject 
no  farther  at  that  time. 

Harper  pondered  over  Ellen's  words, 
wondering  what  their  exact  meaning 
might  be.  When  Meyrac  called  next 
day,  he  told  him  what  she  had  said. 
"Ah  what  child!"  was  the  doctor's 
comment:  "poor  little  simpleton  !  That 
has  no  self-esteem.  One  must  sustain 
it."  And  after  a  brief  visit  to  his  patient 
he  took  a  hasty  leave.  In  the  course  of 
the  day,  Celia,  Leoline,  Ellinor,  Mrs. 
Hartland  and  Mrs.  Creighton  came  to 
see  Ellen.  Harper  wondered  whether 
Dr.  Meyrac  had  begged  them  to  call. 

In  the  evening  the  patient  asked  to 
sit  up  :  she  seemed  to  suffer  much  when 
lying  down.  She  had  some  fever  and  a 
hacking  cough.  She  was  quiet,  but  it 
was  the  quiet  of  resignation,  Harper 
thought,  not  of  hope.  He  sought  to  en 
courage  her  :  "  You  see,  Ellen,  that  the 
people  you  esteem  most  all  come  to  visit 
you  and  interest  themselves  about  you." 

"Yes" — it  was  said  sadly,  despond- 
ingly — "they  are  all  kind  and  good  ;  and 
I'm  very  glad  I  shall  not  live  to  disgrace 
them."  Then,  looking  up  earnestly  in 
that  tender  face  :  "  Mr.  Harper,  I  heard 
that  you  can  read  Hebrew  and  Greek, 
and  know  all  about  what  the  Bible  says 
and  what  God  thinks." 

"  It  is  true,  my  child,  that  I  have 
spent  most  of  my  life  in  studying  the 
Scriptures  in  the  original  tongues  ;  but 


God's    thoughts   are  not   as  ours :   His 
ways  are  past  finding  out." 
"  I'm  very  sorry  for  that." 
"  Why  are  you  sorry  for  it,  Ellen  ?" 
"I'm   so   much  afraid   God  won't  let 
me  go  to  father  by  and  by,  when  I  die  ; 
and   I   wanted   so  much  to  know,  and  I 
thought  maybe  you  could  tell  me." 

"  Perhaps  I  can.  There  are  some 
things  that  God  has  told  us.  Why  are 
you  afraid  you  will  never  be  in  heaven 
with  your  father  ?" 

"  Because  father  was  such  a  good 
man — and — "  she  buried  her  face  in  her 
hands  and  he  saw  the  tears  trickle  over 
her  fingers  :  at  last,  in  a  low  tone  that 
went  to  his  heart,  she  sobbed  out,  "and 
oh,  Mr.  Harper,  I'm  not  a  good  woman  !" 
Harper  looked  at  her  as  Christ,  when 
he  sojourned  on  earth,  may  have  looked 
on  some  humble  Judean  penitent.  Ere 
he  could  reply  she  interrupted  him, 
speaking  hastily,  as  if  fearing  her  courage 
might  give  way  :  "  I  joined  your  church, 
and  I  know  I  ought  to  tell  you.  I  prom 
ised  father  before  he  died  that  I  wouldn't 
marry  Mr.  Mowbray  till  I  was  twenty- 
one — not  for  a  year  yet :  we've  been  en 
gaged  five  months.  He  wanted  me  to 
marry  him  sooner  —  this  year.  But  I 
couldn't  lie  to  father — and  he  just  dead 
too— could  I  ?" 

"  No  :  you  did  quite  right  to  refuse 
him." 

"  Do  you  think  so,  Mr.  Harper  ?" 
"Yes,  and  God  thinks  so  too." 
"  Does  He  ?"  with  a  pleased  smile  : 
in  a  few  moments  it  faded  :  "  But  Eve 
lyn  was  angry  :  he  thought  I  didn't  love 
him,  and  that  made  me  very,  very  sorry, 
for  he  had  been  as  kind  and  good  to  me 
as  he  could  be.  Then  I  thought  what  a 
poor  thing  I  was  compared  to  him,  and 
what  could  I  ever  do  for  him  ?  And  I 
told  him  if  he  would  only  let  me  keep 
my  promise  to  father,  there  wasn't  any 
thing  else  in  the  world  I  would  refuse 
him  ;  but  Mr.  Harper — "  a  feeling  of 
oppression  had  been  gradually  gaining 
on  the  poor  girl :  she  couldn't  say  an 
other  word.  Harper  was  startled  and 
fearful  of  what  was  coming  ;  and,  after 
he  had  bathed  her  throbbing  temples 
and  she  had  gradually  revived,  "  Don't 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


245 


talk  any  more,"  he  said  :   « it  exhausts 
you." 

But  though  face  and  neck  were  flush 
ing  scarlet,  and  though  her  respiration 
was  becoming  hurried  and  painful,  she 
went  on  :  "I  didn't  mean — I  never  in 
tended— maybe  you  won't  believe  me— 
and  she  looked  up  at  him — such  an  im 
ploring  look  ! 

He  understood  it  all  now  !  The  first 
impulse  was  to  reprove  the  offender — to 
show  up  before  her  the  enormity  of  her 
fault  —  but  that  suppliant  look  !  His 
heart  was  not  proof  against  it ;  and  after 
ward,  when  he  thought  it  over,  he  took 
himself  to  task  for  this  ;  but  just  then 
he  couldn't  help  saying,  «  Say  no  more, 
my  child.  I  do  most  religiously  believe 
you.  You  have  a  right  to  be  believed. 
You  wouldn't  tell  a  lie  and  break  your 
promise  to  your  dead  father  :  if  you  had, 
you  might  have  been  that  bad  man's 
wife  to-day." 

"  Oh,  please,  please,  Mr.  Harper,  don't 
call  him  a  bad  man.  I'm  not  a  bit  bet 
ter  than  he  is." 

"  What  did  he  say  to  you  before  he 
went?" 

Ellen  hesitated  :  "  I  haven't  seen  him 
for  three  weeks."  The  sigh  and  the 
]ook — so  utterly  hopeless  both — aroused 
in  Harper  as  much  anger  as  that  in 
dulgent  heart  of  his  was  capable  of 
feeling. 

"  He  forsook  you  without  a  word  !"  he 
broke  forth,  but  seeing  how  much  pain 
he  gave  her,  he  checked  his  indignation, 
saying  gently  :  "  Are  you  sorry  for  what 
you  have  done,  my  child  ?" 

"  I'm  very  sorry  for  it  when  I  think 
of  God:  I'm  sure  it  must  have  made 
Him  angry,  and  I  don't  know  as  He'll 
ever  forgive  me.  Yes,  I'm  very,  very 
sorry:  it  was  so  wrong;  only — I'm  afraid 
that's  wicked  too — I'm  not  sorry  Evelyn 
found  out  that  I  told  him  the  truth  about 
putting  off  the  marriage.  He  knows 
now  that  it  wasn't,  because  I  didn't  care 
for  him.  He  knows  that  I  do  love  him; 
and  I  can't  help  being  glad  of  that." 

It  was  a  new  revelation  to  the  warm 
hearted,  guileless  minister.  He  looked  at 
the  girl  with  dimmed  eyes,  wondering,  the 
while,  whether  that  passage  about  Jona 


than's  love  «  passing  the  love  of  woman" 
was  not  a  mistranslation.  His  voice  had 
a  wonderful  tenderness  in  its  tones  when 
he  said,  « You  are  glad  you  made  him 
know  that  you  love  him,  even  though  he 
deserts  you  without  a  single  farewell  ?" 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Harper,  how  can  I  help 
forgiving  him  that  ?  He  is  so  rich  now. 
He  will  have  a  great,  fine  house,  with 
carriages  and  horses  and  servants  :  then 
fashionable  people,  that  know  so  much, 
will  all  come  to  see  him.  And  I  know 
so  little  :  I  can  scarcely  speak  French 
even.  He  would  be  ashamed  of  me  if  I 
was  his  wife." 

"You  have  forgiven  him  everything, 
then  ?" 

'•  I  love  him.  Oh  yes  :  I  couldn't  go 
and  leave  him  for  ever  and  not  forgive 
him.  I  should  never  be  happy,  even 
with  father,  if  I  did  that." 

No  complaint  of  death — not  a  spark 
of  resentment  toward  the  author  of  all 
her  sufferings  :  loving  still.  Ellen  had 
never  read  Goldsmith's  two  celebrated 
stanzas  :  she  only  acted  them  out.  Her 
feeling  was  that  she  had  "  stooped  to 
folly,"  and  that  she  had  to  die.* 

The  kind  old  man's  heart  yearned 
toward  her  :  he  couldn't  help  it.  »  My 
poor  child,"  he  said,  «  you  asked  me  if  I 
could  tell  you  whether  God  would  forgive 
you  and  suffer  you  to  be  with  your  father, 
if  you  died — " 

"  When  I  die.  Don't  be  sorry  for 
that,  Mr.  Harper:  I'm  glad.  You  know 
I  mustn't  bring  shame  on  your  church 
and  Miss  Celia's  school  ;  and  maybe 
they  won't  think  so  hard  of  me  when 
I'm  dead.  Then,  if  I  can  only  get  to  go 
to  father,  I'll  be  a  great  deal  happier  than 
if  I  had  to  stay  here.  Do  you  really 
think  God  will  let  me  ?" 

"  Til  tell  you  what  Jesus  Christ  once 
did  and  said,  and  then  you  can  judge  : 
that's  better  than  to  take  my  word  for  it. 
It  was  when  he  was  preaching  in  a  city 
of  Galilee,  probably  Nain.  He  was  in 
vited  to  dine  with  a  man  named  Simon, 
one  of  those  called  Pharisees,  who 

*  The  sentiment,  as  expressed  in  a  German  transla 
tion  (Lessing's,  I  believe)  beginning— 

"  Lasst  sich  ein  liebes  Kind  bethb'ren" — 
is  more  tender  and  delicate  than  the  original. 


246 


BEYOND    THE   BREAKERS. 


thought  themselves  saints  or  godly 
men — better  than  all  others :  the  people 
thought  them  so  too.  In  those  days 
men  did  not  sit  at  meals :  they  lay 
on  couches,  with  their  feet  uncovered. 
While  they  were  at  table  a  woman  came 
in  :  most  persons  believe  it  was  Mary 
Magdalene,  but  I  don't  think  that  was 
her  name.  This  woman — "  he  hesi 
tated —  "you  have  done  very  wrong, 
Ellen,  but  this  woman  was  a  far  more 
grievous  sinner  than  you've  ever  been. 
All  the  city  knew  of  her  evil  doings. 
Decent  people  would  not  associate  with 
her.  No  doubt  Simon  thought  she 
would  never  be  forgiven,  and  he  was 
shocked  when  he  saw  her  come  into  the 
house  and  stand  behind  the  couch  where 
Jesus  reclined.  She  wept,  thinking  of 
her  sins  ;  she  kissed  Jesus'  feet,  and 
anointed  them  with  precious  ointment 
and  wiped  them  with  her  long  hair.  It 
was  all  she  could  do  to  show  her  love." 

Ellen  had  been  gazing  at  the  narrator, 
her  soul  in  her  eyes.  She  must,  no 
doubt,  have  read  that  chapter  of  Luke 
before,  but  how  little  common  iterances 
— set  words  repeated  week  by  week — 
come  home,  especially  to  the  young  and 
the  happy  !  The  story  was  all  new  and 
strange  to  her  as  Harper  related  it. 
When  he  stopped,  struck  by  her  eager, 
pleading  look,  she  said,  "  Oh,  go  on, 
Mr.  Harper  :  please  go  on.  Did  Christ 
forgive  her  ?" 

"You  shall  hear  the  very  words," 
he  said,  taking  a  Bible  from  the  table 
beside  him.  Then  he  read  to  her  how 
Simon  thought  Jesus  could  not  be  the 
Christ  or  he  would  have  known  what 
sort  of  woman  this  was  ;  how  Jesus, 
divining  Simon's  thought,  told  him  the 
parable  of  the  two  debtors  ;  and  how 
Simon  had  to  admit  the  likelihood  that 
when  both  these  men  were  frankly  for 
given  their  debts,  he  to  whom  most  was 
forgiven  would  love  the  most.  Then 
came  the  comparison  between  the  cold 
reception  given  to  his  guest  by  the  self- 
installed  saint  and  the  humble,  tender 
regard  of  the  self-accusing  sinner.  And 
finally  the  words — how  few  how  simple! 
yet  embodying  the  very  essence  of  all 
that  Jesus  came  to  teach  and  to  die  for 


— "  I  say  unto  thee,  her  sins,  which  are 
many,  are  forgiven  ;  for  she  loved  much." 
To  the  last  that  look  of  eager,  doubt 
ful  inquiry  !  Then,  when  the  gracious 
words  came,  such  a  deep  sigh  of  relief! 
Her  head  drooped,  her  eyes  filled  with 
tears  of  joy  and  gratitude :  her  lips 
moved — 

"  The  voiceless  prayer, 
Unheard  by  all  save  Mercy's  ear  ; 
And  which,  if  Mercy  did  not  hear, 
Oh  God  would  not  be  what  this  bright 

And  glorious  universe  of  His — 
This  world  of  wisdom,  goodness,  light, 

And  endless  love — proclaims  He  is  !" 

"  And  you  forgive  me,  too  ?"  were  the 
first  words  Ellen  was  able  to  utter. 

"  I,  dear  child  !  A  sinner  like  me  ! 
I  forgive  you  with  all  my  heart  and  soul. 
Dare  I  condemn  when  my  Saviour  pro 
claims  forgiveness  ?" 

Ellen  never  directly  reverted  to  the 
subject  afterward,  but  from  that  time  her 
quiet  wish  for  death  was  unmixed  with 
despondency.  The  words  of  consolation 
had  allayed  grief  and  fear.  Herself  for 
giving,  she  readily  believed  in  forgive 
ness.  Her  sufferings  thenceforth  were 
physical  only. 

But  these  were  great.  At  times,  next 
day,  she  seemed  unable  to  endure  a  re 
cumbent  position.  Fever  and  cough  had 
both  increased,  so  had  the  feeling  of  op 
pression  :  there  were  great  thirst,  much 
lassitude,  and  no  appetite  whatever — a 
settled,  stinging  pain  also  on  the  chest. 
Meyrac  employed  the  test  of  ausculta 
tion.  It  was,  he  then  told  Harper,  a 
severe  attack  of  pneumonia,  caused  by 
exposure.  He  bled  Ellen  —  with  some 
misgivings  indeed,  for  he  had  lost,  under 
similar  treatment,  one  or  two  patients 
lately  by  this  disease,  and  his  professional 
faith  in  the  theory  about  the  congested 
lung  that  must  needs  be  unloaded  by  use 
of  the  lancet  was  beginning  to  be  shaken. 

Hannah  Clymer,  relieved  on  alternate 
nights  by  Norah,  spent  most  of  her  time 
by  Ellen's  bedside,  and  ere  many  days 
had  passed  she  came  to  feel  as  if  the 
life  of  some  dear  child  of  her  own  was 
at  stake.  So  gentle  and  uncomplaining 
— such  a  calm  cheerfulness  even.  Entire 
oblivion  of  her  wrongs,  utter  forgetful- 
ness  of  self;  no  "See  how  a  Christian 


BEYOND    THE   BREAKERS. 


247 


can  die  !"  about  her.  Yet,  if  the  graces 
of  our  religion  give  title,  a  Christian  in 
deed,  in  whom  was  neither  bitterness 
nor  guile.  There  was,  no  doubt,  scant 
cultivation  of  the  intellect,  small  scope 
of  thought,  little  knowledge  of  the  world 
and  its  wondrous  economy :  lack  of 
strength,  too,  to  hold  firm,  and  of  pru 
dence  or  stern  principle  to  restrain.  For 
all  her  twenty  summers,  there  was  much 
of  the  child  about  her.  Yet  of  such  is 
the  kingdom  of  heaven.  There  was 
faith,  hope  —  above  all,  love.  She  had 
given  up  this  world,  the  heart  failing  in 
the  struggle  through  it :  her  thoughts 
and  wishes  were  already  in  the  next — 
to  her  not  a  shadowy  object  of  belief, 
but  an  assured  reality,  close  at  hand. 
To  Mrs.  Clymer  she  loved  to  speak,  as 
any  child  might,  of  going  to  see  her 
father  and  mother,  just  as  if  she  were 
from  home  for  the  time,  but  was  soon 
to  return  to  the  shelter  of  the  dear  fa 
miliar  arms. 

On  one  occasion  only  her  thoughts 
seemed  to  revert  vividly  to  the  past. 
As  the  disease  ran  its  course  the  tor 


turing  pain  diminished,  giving  those 
around  her  hopes  of  her  recovery — false 
hopes,  for  next  day  there  was  very  high 
fever,  running  at  last  into  delirium. 
Then  the  sufferer  appeared  to  be  greatly 
excited,  addressing  her  lover  as  if  pres 
ent  ;  now  reasoning  with  him  about  the 
sacred  promise  made  to  her  father  ;  anon 
showing  wild  joy  and  conversing  as  if  he 
had  returned  to  leave  her  no  more.  But 
when  the  delirium  passed  off,  though 
she  was  weak  to  utter  helplessness,  yet 
she  was  quite  calm  ;  and  then  all  her 
allusions,  breathing  a  sweet,  trustful  ten 
derness,  were  to  her  parents  and  to  the 
welcome  that  was  coming.  It  was  her 
last  thought,  if  one  might  judge  from 
the  smile  that  spoke  from  the  quiet  lips 
after  the  soul  that  gave  it  birth  was 
gone— after  the  spiritual  body,  emerg 
ing  to  higher  life,  and  awaking  from  the 
brief  transition-slumber  among  rejoicing 
friends,  had  been  ushered  into  its  new 
home — there  where  there  is  "  no  more 
death  nor  sorrow  nor  crying,  neither  any 
more  pain  ;  for  the  former  things  have 
passed  away." 


PART    XIII. 


CHAPTER   XLV. 
MR.    HARPER   SPEAKS    HIS   MIND. 

'  Indignant  scorn  confest  I  feel,  to  see 
That  sovereign  sin,  that  hag  Hypocrisy, 
So  dupe  the  witless  world  and  simple  thee." 

ONE  evening,  three  days  before  El 
len's  death,  Barbara  had  come  to 
Mr.  Harper,  alarmed  :  "There's  a  man 
been  prowling  around  the  house,  even 
ings,  a'most  ever  since  that  poor  girl 
came  here,  Mr.  Harper.  I  don't  like 
his  looks  nor  his  ways.  Just  afore  I 
closed  the  shutters  to-night  there  was 
his  face  at  the  window." 

"Of  Ellen's  room?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"You  know,  Barbara,  that  I've  never 
locked  an  outside  door,  nor  fastened 
down  a  window,  in  the  fifteen  years  I've 
been  here ;  and  what  harm  has  come 
of  it?" 

"  I  know,  sir.  But  then  the  pitcher 
may  go  to  the  well  ninety-nine  times, 
and  get  broken  at  last." 

"Is  he  about  still?" 

"  In  the  front  yard  he  was,  sir,  a  min 
ute  ago." 

"  Bring  me  my  hat  and  cane." 

Under  a  shady  kolreuteria,*  with  its 
masses  of  bright  brown  seed-vessels 
sheen  in  the  silver  moonlight,  leaning 
with  his  back  against  the  front  gate, 
and  looking,  it  seemed,  intently  at  the 
house,  Mr.  Harper  found  a  man  in 
working  jacket  of  fustian,  with  a  slouch 
ed  hat.  As  he  approached  him,  the 
other  took  off  his  hat,  saying :  "  I  ask 
your  pardon,  Mr.  Harper,  but  I  wanted 
to  know  how  Miss  Ellen  is  to-night." 

Harper  could  not  remember  where  he 
had  seen  the  speaker  before,  but  the 

*  One  of  the  handsomest  and  most  meritorious  of 
ornamental  shade  trees,  growing  to  the  height  of  thirty 
or  forty  feet,  introduced  into  England  from  China  a 
century  ago,  and  less  in  use  among  us  than  it  deserves. 
In  summer  its  long  blossoms  cover  it  like  a  yellow 
cloud.  Then  succeeds  a  profusion  of  large  seed- 
vessels — at  first  red,  then  yellow,  and  lastly  of  a  rich 
brown.  It  blooms  at  three  or  four  years  old.  The 
villagers,  because  they  had  a  habit  of  planting  it  at 
their  front  gates,  usually  called  it  the  gate  tree. 
248 


tone  was  civil,  and  he  replied :  "  I  am 
sorry  to  say  she  is  no  better — worse  in 
deed  :  I'm  afraid  we  shall  lose  her." 

The  moonlight  fell  distinctly  on  a 
handsome  face,  with  something  of  a 
dissolute  look  over  it.  The  face  dark 
ened — with  anger,  Harper  thought,  as 
much  as  sorrow — and  the  fellow  mutter 
ed  what  sounded  very  like  a  curse. 
But  if  it  was  a  curse,  he  restrained  him 
self  instantly,  and  said  with  emotion, 
for  his  voice  trembled :  "  I  worked  for 
her  father,  and  they  always  treated  me 
well.  There  never  was  a  better  girl." 
Then,  abruptly,  "Do  you  believe  in 
hell?" 

Harper  looked  at  him  in  astonish 
ment  ;  and  the  man,  as  if  he  felt  there 
needed  apology,  added,  "  I  hope  you'll 
excuse  me,  Mr.  Harper.  I  didn't  mean 
to  ask  an  uncivil  question  of  a  good 
man  like  you,  that  took  poor  Miss  El 
len  in  and  cared  for  her.  But  they  say 
you've  no  end  of  learnin',  and  I  thought 
you'd  be  likely  to  know  whether  there  is 
hell-fire  or  not." 

He  spoke  like  a  man  in  earnest,  and 
he  had  touched  on  Mr.  Harper's  vul 
nerable  point.  The  latter  replied  :  "It 
is  an  important  question.  I'm  very 
sorry  all  of  us  cannot  read  the  Word  of 
God  in  the  Hebrew  and  Greek.  The 
translators  were  men,  and  some  of  them 
indifferent  scholars.  In  our  Authorized 
Version  the  Hebrew  word  sheol  is  usu 
ally  translated  '  hell ;'  but  the  Hebrews 
really  meant  by  it  a  vast  pit,  a  common 
grave  underground  —  nothing  more. 
The  Jews  seemed  to  have  thought  that 
our  rewards  and  punishments  were  on 
earth,  not  hereafter." 

"But  you  don't  think  that's  so,  Mr. 
Harper,  do  you  ?" 

"  No  :  I  only  tell  you  what  the  Jews 
believed.  In  the  New  Testament  hades 
means  the  state  of  the  dead  in  general — 
a  sort  of  intermediate  existence  :  we  do 
wrong  to  translate  it  'hell.'  There  is 
another  Greek  word,  gchenna,  that  was 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


249 


used  in  Christ's  day,  and  sometimes  by 
Christ  himself,  to  typify  a  place  or  state 
of  punishment.  Yet  it  was,  in  fact,  the 
name  of  a  deep  valley  or  gorge  near 
Jerusalem,  into  which  the  dead  bodies 
of  criminals  and  the  carcases  of  animals 
were  cast." 

"Then  you  don't  believe  there's  a 
lake  of  fire  that  bad  men  are  thrown 
into  when  they  die  ?" 

"  In  God's  Word,  correctly  translated, 
I  find  nothing  to  prove  that." 

"I'm  sorry  for  it :  there  are  some  of 
us  that  need  hell-fire.  But  you  think 
bad  men  will  be  punished  in  the  next 
world,  don't  you,  Mr.  Harper?" 

"Undoubtedly:  the  Bible  declares 
that  they  will,  and  nothing  can  be  more 
certain ;  yet  in  regard  to  the  actual  con 
dition  of  the  dead,  either  before  or  after 
the  resurrection,  the  Scriptures  teach  us 
very  little.  But  why  are  you  sorry  there 
is  no  proof  that  there  is  a  hell  of  burn 
ing  flames  ?" 

The  man — it  was  our  old  acquaint 
ance,  Cassiday — hesitated:  "I  won't 
tell  you  a  lie.  I  was  thinking  of  John 
Mowbray.  There  ought  to  be  just  such 
a  place  for  him." 

"You  mustn't  talk  so.  God  alone 
sees  what  ought  to  be.  But  what  do 
you  know  about  John  Mowbray  ?" 

"That  he's  an  infernal  scoundrel.  I 
oughtn't  to  talk  so  before  you,  Mr.  Har 
per,  and  I  didn't  intend  to.  But  I'll  tell 
you  what  I  do  know  about  him  :  The 
evening  before  he  left,  when  I  was  out 
in  the  country  a  mile  beyond  the  Wid 
ow  Hartland's,  I  passed  a  house  where 
a  young  man  lives  that  Mowbray  was 
intimate  with.  The  window  was  open, 
and  the  two  were  laughin'  and  talkin'. 
I  thought  one  of  them  used  Miss  Ellen's 
name,  and  I  couldn't  help  stoppin'  a 
moment.  I'm  not  over-particular,  Mr. 
Harper,  but  when  I  heard  that  boastful 
liar  speaking  of  a  virtuous  young  lady 
that  he  had  been  engaged  to  as  if  she 
was — well,  as  no  man  that's  a  gentle 
man,  or  a  gentleman's  son,  has  a  right 
to  talk — if  I  had  had  him  just  then  by 
the  throat,  may-happen  he'd  have  found 
out,  by  this,  whether  you're  right  about 
a  burnin'  hell  or  not." 


"That  would  have  been  murder." 

"  I  know  that's  an  ugly  word ;  and  I 
suppose  it  would  be  hard  to  get  such  a 
thing  out  of  a  man's  head  afterward : 
maybe  it's  best  when  a  fellow  misses 
his  chance  and  can't  do  all  he's  a  mind 
to.  But  I  wonder  what  God  takes  care 
of  a  blackguard  like  that  for,  and  sends 
him  cartloads  of  money,  as  if  he  were 
the  pick  of  the  earth  ?" 

Before  Harper  could  reply  to  a  diffi 
culty  that  millions  have  tried  in  vain  to 
solve,  Cassiday  had  swung  the  gate  vio 
lently  open  :  then,  recollecting  himself, 
he  closed  it  gently,  again  took  off  his 
hat  to  Mr.  Harper,  and  strode  down  the 
sidewalk  toward  the  village,  as  if  the 
avenger  of  blood  were  behind  him. 

"A  strange  man  !"  thought  Harper — 
"not  altogether  evil."  Then  his  thoughts 
reverted  to  Mowbray.  The  good  man 
didn't  like  to  feel  as  he  felt  just  then  to 
ward  him. 

Ellen's  funeral  was  numerously  at 
tended.  The  body  was  laid,  as  she  had 
earnestly  requested,  beside  her  father's. 
The  services  were  simple,  and  affected 
many  to  tears :  there  were  two  mourn 
ers  who  seemed  unable  to  restrain  them 
selves  —  Hiram  Goddart,  good,  kind- 
hearted  young  fellow,  and  Willie,  who 
had  been  a  special  favorite  of  Ellen's. 
He  felt,  poor  little  stray !  as  if  he  had 
lost  a  second  mother. 

Ellen,  who  had  no  near  relatives,  had 
not,  in  her  last  days,  forgotten  these 
two  who  now  so  bitterly  wept  her  loss. 
In  the  will  which,  at  Harper's  instance, 
she  had  executed,  she  left  all  the  mill 
property,  burdened  only  with  a  few  small 
legacies,  to  Hiram  Goddart,  on  condi 
tion  that  he  should  adopt  the  little  or 
phan  and  care  for  him,  in  all  respects, 
as  though  he  were  his  own  son.  Re 
ligiously,  as  if  it  had  been  a  behest  from 
Heaven,  did  Goddart  carry  out  the  last 
wishes  of  the  girl  he  had  so  hopelessly 
loved. 

During  the  day  of  the  funeral,  and  for 
several  days  thereafter,  all  Chiskauga 
was  busy  talking  about  Ellen  and  Mow 
bray.  While  some  spoke  kindly  of  the 
unfortunate  and  forsaken  orphan,  much 
was  said  that  was  uncharitable  and  un- 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


just ;  and  of  this  a  good  deal  came  to 
Barbara's  ears.  She  repeated  it  to  Mr. 
Harper,  and  he  was  greatly  moved 
thereby. 

The  funeral  was  on  a  Monday,  and 
in  the  course  of  the  week  it  became  gen 
erally  bruited  about  that  on  the  next 
Sunday  Mr.  Harper  would  preach  Ellen 
Tyler's  funeral  sermon.  That  was  not 
strictly  true,  yet  the  spirit  had  moved 
him,  and  he  did  resolve  to  speak  on  a 
topic  which  had  been  strongly  brought 
to  his  mind  by  Ellen's  fate  and  the  vil 
lage  comments  thereon. 

Harper's  church,  built  in  the  simplest 
Early  English  Gothic,  of  warm  gray 
freestone,  had  a  quaint  old  air  about  it, 
not  common  in  Western  villages.  When 
the  hour  came,  curiosity  had  attracted 
an  overflowing  audience.  Seats,  aisles 
were  all  filled — every  foot  of  standing- 
room  occupied. 

The  preacher  took  a  brief  survey 
of  the  difference  in  spirit  between  the 
Christian  system  of  ethics  and  the  mo 
rality  of  all  preceding  creeds.  He  re 
viewed  the  gradual  advance  from  stern 
severity  and  the  retaliating  code  to  a 
rule  under  which  mercy  tempers  justice, 
and  love  is  the  fulfilling  of  the  law. 
And  he  proceeded  to  show  that  the 
master-principles  of  that  gentle  religion 
which  was  promulgated  in  Judea  at  a 
period  so  remote  that  fifty  generations 
have  since  risen  and  perished,  are  still 
far  in  advance  not  of  the  practice  only, 
but  of  the  laws  and  the  avowed  senti 
ment,  of  the  present  age.  Then  he  went 
on  as  follows  : 

"We  are,  to  this  day,  in  many  of  our 
common  feelings,  far  more  heathen  or 
Jewish  than  Christian.  Draco's  thought 
was  of  avenging  justice ;  Judaism  spoke 
of  the  offended  dignity  of  the  law; 
Christianity  tells  us  of  the  joy  in  heaven 
over  one  sinner  that  repenteth,  greater 
than  over  ninety-and-nine  just  persons. 
Little  of  that  virtuous  indignation  against 
evil-doers,  so  easily  put  on,  do  we  hear 
from  the  lips  of  Jesus  ;  and  when  he  did 
express  it,  it  was  chiefly  directed  against 
the  Scribes  and  Pharisees,  hypocrites, 
who  devoured  widows'  houses,  and  then, 
standing  up  in  the  same  temple  as  a 


humble,  repentant  brother,  were  wont 
to  say :  '  God,  I  thank  Thee  that  I  am 
not  as  other  men  are,  or  even  as  this 
Publican.' 

"What  a  world  will  this  be,  dear 
friends,  when  we  shall  judge  not,  lest 
we  in  turn  be  judged;  when  we  shall 
estimate  at  its  actual  wickedness  that 
besetting  tempter  of  the  social  circle, 
scarcely  second  in  mischief  to  the  de 
mon  of  intemperance  ;  hydra  of  many 
names :  now,  as  mere  tittle-tattle,  in 
dulged  in  to  enliven  the  inanity  of  some 
dull  tea-table ;  now,  as  street-corner 
scandal,  raked  forth  to  relish  the  twad 
dle  of  loafing  idleness  ;  and  anon  reach 
ing  the  grade  of  serpent-tongued  slan 
der,  deliberately  employed  to  blast  and 
to  destroy. 

"Against  calumny,  in  its  avowed 
shape,  both  law  and  public  opinion  are 
arrayed,  but  as  to  the  petty  species  of 
backbiting,  no  whit  less  heinous,  the 
sinners  against  charity  and  truth  are 
often  found  in  Society's  most  respected 
circles.  '  They  meant  no  harm  ;  they 
were  only  talking :  it  was  but  a  jest.' 
Ay  !  miserable  jest,  paltry  small-talk  to 
the  idle  tale-bearers  ;  but  bitter  earnest, 
often  deadly  defamation,  to  the  down 
trodden  victim  !  How  many  of  earth's 
best  and  purest  have  been  hunted  to 
death  by  ribald  tongues  ! 

"There  is  another  consideration  wor 
thy  of  remark  in  connection  with  this 
meanest  among  human  vices.  The  cruel 
are  cowardly,  and  the  defamer  is  no  ex 
ception  to  the  rule.  In  dealing  with 
one  class  of  offences  especially  he  is 
wont  to  pass  by  arrogant  trespass,  while 
he  breaks  the  bruised  reed  and  crushes 
the  weary  soul,  already  brought  nigh 
to  perishing." 

He  paused.  The  tall,  spare  form  was 
drawn  up  to  its  full  height,  the  mild 
eyes  lit  up,  and  he  "spoke  as  one  hav 
ing  authority :" 

"  There  is  a  terrible  wrong  daily  per 
petrated  in  society  ;  often  veiled  under 
a  garb  of  light ;  usually  sustained  by 
public  opinion,  vaunting  itself  as  the 
argus-eyed ;  seldom  exposed,  because 
it  needs  courage  to  expose  it,  yet  not 
the  less  a  wrong,  cruel,  flagrant,  das- 


BEYOND    THE   BREAKER^. 


35* 


tardly,  iniquitous  in  principle,  demoral 
izing  in  result. 

"The  iniquity  consists  in  this.  There 
are  two  culprits  arraigned  before  the  bar 
of  Public  Opinion — their  offence  mutual, 
their  culpability  unequal ;  still  more  un 
equal  their  power  to  endure  the  world's 
condemnation.  The  one,  by  nature  the 
stronger  and  hardier,  in  most  cases  the 
tempter  and  the  hypocrite,  ofttimes  the 
forsworn  :  the  other,  of  a  sex  sensitively 
alive  to  public  reproach,  usually  more 
sinned  against  than  sinning ;  too  often 
deceived  by  a  loyal,  unsuspicious  na 
ture  ;  sometimes  betrayed  by  a  warm 
and  a  lonely  heart. 

"And  now,  how  deals  the  world  as 
between  these  two  offenders  ?  In  what 
measure  do  we  apportion  to  each  re 
spectively  the  anathemas  of  our  resent 
ment  ?  If  the  stronger  animal,  in  the 
face  of  deceit  detected  or  perjury  laid 
bare,  brave  it  out,  do  we  indignantly 
spurn  from  our  presence  the  shameless 
transgressor  ?  And  if  the  deceived  one, 
rudely  awakened  from  a  feverish  dream, 
return,  contrite  and  in  misery,  to  the 
home  whence  she  strayed,  does  Society, 
rejoicing  over  her  repentance,  receive 
her  with  glad  jubilee,  saying:  'This, 
my  daughter,  was  dead  and  is  alive 
again  :  she  was  lost  and  is  found  ?' 

"  Must  I  give  the  answer  ?  A  true- 
hearted  poet,  Bryan  Procter,  shall  give 
it  for  me,  in  some  of  the  noblest  lines 
the  present  century  has  produced.  Two 
pictures  he  places  before  us  : 

WITHOUT. 

The  winds  are  bitter,  the  skies  are  wild, 

From  the  roof  conies  plunging  the  drowning  rain  : 

Without,  in  tatters,  the  world's  poor  child 
Sobbeth  aloud  her  grief,  her  pain. 

No  one  heareth  her,  no  one  heedeth  her ; 
But  Hunger,  her  friend,  with  his  bony  hand, 

Grasps  her  throat,  whispering  huskily, 
4  What  dost  thou  in  a  Christian  land  ?' 

WITHIN. 

The  skies  are  wild  and  the  blast  is  cold, 

Yet  riot  and  luxury  brawl  within  : 
Slaves  are  waiting,  in  silver  and  gold, 

Waiting  the  nod  of  a  child  of  sin. 
The  fire  is  crackling,  wine  is  bubbling 

Up  in  each  glass,  to  its  beaded  brim  : 
The  jesters  are  laughing,  the  parasites  quaffing, 
'  Happiness  !'  '  Honor  !'  and  all  for  him  ! 

WITHOUT. 

She  who  is.  slain  in  the  winter  weather, 
Ah  !  she  once  had  a  village  fame — 


Listened  to  love  on  the  moonlit  heather  ; 

Had  gentleness,  vanity,  maiden  shame. 
Now  her  allies  are  the  tempest  howling; 

Prodigals'  curses,  self-disdain ; 
Poverty,  misery.     Well,  no  matter  : 

There  is  an  end  unto  every  pain. 
The  harlot's  fame  is  her  doom  to-day, 

Disdain,  despair  :  by  to-morrow's  light 
The  rugged  boards  and  the  pauper's  pall ; 

And  so  she'll  be  given  to  dusky  night. 
Without  a  tear  or  a  human  sigh 

She's  gone,  poor  life  and  its  fever  o'er  I 
So  let  her  in  calm  oblivion  lie, 

While  the  world  runs  merry,  as  heretofore. 

WITHIN. 

He  who  yon  lordly  feast  enjoyeth, 

He  who  doth  rest  on  his  couch  of  down — 
He  it  was  who  threw  the  forsaken 

Under  the  feet  of  the  trampling  town. 
Liar,  betrayer,  false  as  cruel ; 

What  is  the  doom  for  his  dastard  sin  ? 
His  peers  they  scorn,  high  dames  they  shun  him  ?— 

Unbar  yon  palace  and  gaze  within  ! 

There — yet  his  deeds  are  all  trumpet-sounded— 

There  upon  silken  seats  recline 
Maidens  as  fair  as  the  summer  morning, 

Waiting  him  rise  from  the  rosy  wine. 
Mothers  all  proffer  their  stainless  daughters  ; 

Men  of  high  honor  salute  him  '  friend  !' 
Skies  !  oh  where  are  your  cleansing  waters  ? 

World  !  oh  where  do  thy  wonders  end  ? 

"  Is  this  justice  ?  Is  it  morality  ?  Is 
it  Christianity  ?" 

The  congregation  sat  in  breathless 
silence.  Harper  himself  felt  as  Moses 
may  have  done  on  Mount  Horeb  when 
he  was  bidden  to  put  his  sh<jes  from  off 
his  feet,  for  the  place  whereon  he  stood 
was  holy  ground.  His  voice  had  a 
touching  solemnity  as  he  continued  : 

"Once,  in  the  olden  time  and  on  a 
memorable  occasion,  a  question  of 
somewhat  similar  import  was  asked. 

"  It  was  in  the  temple  at  Jerusalem. 
She  whose  recent  offence,  proved  be 
yond  denial,  was  doubtless  then  the 
common  talk  of  the  day — she  was  there, 
in  the  midst.  And  there  also  were  the 
notables  of  the  nation,  who  walked  in 
long  robes  and  loved  greetings  in  the 
markets ;  to  whom  were  assigned  the 
highest  seats  in  synagogues  and  the 
chief  rooms  at  feasts ;  representatives 
of  the  rank  and  respectability  of  the 
Jewish  metropolis ;  the  Scribes,  men  of 
learning,  doctors  in  the  law ;  the  Phari 
sees,  exclusives  of  their  day,  conform 
ists  in  every  outward  observance,  de 
votees  to  every  formal  ceremonial. 
They  were  all  there  to  tempt  Him  of 


252 


^BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


whom  their  officers  (sent  to  take  Him, 
but  returning  overawed)  had  declared  : 
'  Never  man  spake  like  this  man.'  They 
set  out  their  case,  and  they  asked  Him  : 
'  What  sayest  Thou  ?' 

"  They  were  there  to  tempt  Him.  He 
had  preached  to  them  the  novel  doc 
trine  of  mercy,  unknown  to  Jewish  law. 
He  had  inculcated  forgiveness  of  a 
brother's  sin,  even  to  seventy  times 
seven.  He  had  spoken  to  them  the 
parable  of  the  lost  sheep,  of  the  missing 
piece  of  silver,  and,  more  forcible  yet, 
of  the  prodigal  son.  And  they  were 
there  tempting  Him  to  deny,  in  prac 
tice,  the  great  lessons  He  had  taught  in 
theory. 

"  Cunningly  was  the  case  selected  and 
the  question  put.  They  knew  well  that 
the  transgression  of  her  who  stood  be 
fore  them,  shrinking  from  every  eye, 
was  punishable,  by  a  code  unchanged 
through  fifteen  hundred  years,  with  a 
terrible  death — by  stoning;  nay,  that 
its  very  suspicion  entailed  social  excom 
munication.  Would  He  adhere  to  His 
integrity  against  venerable  law — against 
united  public  opinion?  Shrewdly  had, 
they  calculated  the  dilemma  and  the 
risk. 

"  For  a  $m.e,  Jesus,  as  if  He  heard 
them  not,  withheld  His  reply ;  and  His 
questioners,  now  secure  of  victory — one 
can  imagine  their  triumphant  tones — 
asked  Him  again  :  '  What  sayest  Thou  ?' 

"  They  spoke  to  One  who  knew,  in  all 
its  mysteries,  the  human  heart ;  and 
from  its  inmost  recesses  He  summoned 
an  ally  against  legal  cruelty  and  social 
wrong.  They  who  tempted  Him  looked, 
perhaps,  for  evasion :  they  may  have 
expected  to  extort  a  condemnation  of 
the  trembling  culprit.  But  that  glance, 
those  soul-searching  words,  are  not  ad 
dressed  to  her.  The  lightning  falls  upon 
them—'  HE  THAT  is  WITHOUT  SIN  AMONG 

YOU,  LET  HIM  FIRST  CAST  A  STONE  AT 
HER.' 

"  The  discomfiture  is  complete.  Con 
science-routed,  these  goodly  exemplars 
of  learning  and  virtue  slink  away,  one 
by  one,  even  to  the  last.  The  woman 
and  her  Christian  Judge  are  left  togeth 
er,  alone. 


"How  changed,  now,  the  voice  that 
carried  dismay  to  the  self-righteous 
heart !  '  Woman,  where  are  those  thine 
accusers  ?  Hath  no  man  condemned 
thee  ?'  '  No  man,  Lord.'  '  Neither  do  I 
condemn  thee.  Go  and  sin  no  more.'  " 

Again  the  speaker  paused.  When  he 
resumed,  there  was,  in  the  simple  dig 
nity  of  his  manner,  a  touch  of  generous 
indignation  which  awed  his  congrega 
tion  the  more  because,  in  the  good  man  5 
teaching,  it  was  so  rare.  They  felt  that 
he  was  speaking  under  the  sense  of  a 
holy  mission  : 

"  Ye  who  lay  on  others'  shoulders  bur 
dens  grievous  to  be  borne,  and  take 
measure  of  your  own  purity  according 
to  the  fiery  zeal  with  which  you  crusade 
against  frailty  in  your  neighbors  —  ye 
who,  for  a  pretence,  make  long  prayers 
and  pay  frequent  tithes,  yet  neglect  the 
weightier  matters  of  the  law,  justice  and 
mercy  —  Scribes  and  Pharisees  of  our 
modern  day,  stand  forth  and  answer  ! 
Have  you  ever  read  that  story  ?  Has 
its  holy  lesson  ever  come  home  to  your 
hearts  ?  Never  !  never !  Else  had  you 
read  therein  the  rebuke  of  your  own 
barbarity — the  conviction  of  your  own 
heathenism.  Inflexible  judges  you  may 
be,  unflinching  censors  —  CHRISTIANS 
you  are  not !  Christ  spake  comfort  where 
you  persecute :  Christ  rescued  where  you 
destroy. 

"Say,  if  you  can,  why  judgment 
should  not  be  pronounced  against  you. 
Is  the  voice  of  immaculate  virtue  so 
clamorous  that  it  will  be  heard  ?  Do 
you  feel  that  you  are  subjects  of  an 
especial  mission  —  champions,  your 
selves  free  from  all  stain,  and  called 
upon  by  Heaven  itself  to  vindicate  the 
cause  of  offended  purity  ?  Then  show 
the  chivalry  of  champions — the  bravery 
of  virtue.  Let  not  your  coward  blows 
fall  ostentatiously  on  the  weak,  incapable 
of  defence.  Assault  the  strong  :  strike 
at  him  who,  in  return,  can  defy  and  re 
sent.  Make  war  not  on  unresisting  re 
pentance,  but  on  brazen-browed  guilt : 
on  the  liar  who  deceived — on  the  per 
jurer,  repaying  trust  with  treachery, 
who  first  swears  fidelity  and  protection, 
and  then,  recreant  to  his  oath,  apostate 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


253 


to  his  manhood,  flings  aside  his  victim 
to  misery  and  to  scorn. 

"You  will  not?  Then  learn  to  know 
yourselves.  Claiming  to  be  guardians 
of  virtue,  you  are  but  aiders  and  abet 
tors  of  vice.  Through  you,  tolerators 
of  perfidy !  the  villain,  whose  betters 
sleep  in  the  penitentiary,  walks  the  world 
undenounced,  scot-free.  You  acquit  him 
without  a  trial,  and  to  his  victim,  con 
demned  in  advance,  all  trial  is  refused. 
I  do  not  plead  for  the  impenitent :  re 
pentance  must  come  before  forgiveness ; 
but  this  I  say  :  by  your  example  the  re 
turning  wanderer — even  if  her  heart  be 
chastened  and  purified  by  life's  crudest 
lesson,  even  though  she  pray,  with  tears, 
to  re-enter  wisdom's  pleasant  paths, 
sinning  no  more — is  thrust  back,  un- 
pitied — is  shut  out,  unheard.  In  soul 
and  spirit,  despite  her  errors,  she  may 
be  faithful-hearted  as  any  of  her  sex — 
one  who  might  yet  be  restored,  a  grace 
and  a  blessing  to  society.  Yet,  without 
quest  or  discrimination,  you  deny  her 
entrance  at  every  door  save  that  of  the 
abandoned :  she  is  driven  forth  to  per 
dition.  In  league  with  her  destroyer,  it 
is  you  who  hunt  her  down,  until  at  last 
— oh,  the  unspeakable  secrets  of  that 
prison-house  ! — there  is  left  to  the  lost 
one  but  the  fearful  choice  between  in 
famy  and  starvation  !" 

As  he  ended  a  feeling  seemed  to  cross 
the  speaker  that  he  had  been  carried 
away  by  the  impulse  of  the  moment  be 
yond  the  bounds  of  charity.  For  he 
added  quietly,  in  his  usual  gentle  tone : 

"  If  in  denouncing  the  self-righteous 
Phariseeism  of  the  day  I  have  been  be 
trayed  into  unseemly  warmth,  let  me 
stand  excused.  I  assume  to  judge  the  of 
fence,  not  the  offenders.  The  men,  like 
the  murderers  of  Jesus,  should  be  for 
given,  '  for  they  know  not  what  they  do.'  " 

When  the  congregation,  dismissed, 
were  returning  to  their  homes,  most  of 
them  conversed  in  low  and  hesitating 
tones,  as  men  are  wont  to  do  when  they 
have  been  listening,  impressed  by  some 
startling  doctrine  which  they  lack  alike 
argument  to  confute  and  courage  to 
accept  and  to  act  upon. 


Ultimately,  however,  truth  prevailed. 
Ellen's  offence  was  of  rare  occurrence 
among  these  simple  people,  and  public 
opinion  on  the  subject  had  not  crystal 
lized  as  rigidly  as  in  older  communities. 
Harper's  stirring  appeal  to  that  still, 
small  voice  so  often  overborne  by  pre 
judice  had  great  effect :  the  sad  fate  of 
the  culprit,  too,  induced  gentle  judg 
ment  :  so  that,  except  by  Mrs.  Wolf 
gang,  Cranstoun  and  their  incorrigible 
set,  the  girl  was  seldom  mentioned  in 
Chiskauga  thenceforth,  except  kindly 
and  charitably,  as  "poor  Ellen  !" 

One  of  Mr.  Harper's  congregation 
went  home  heartsick — heartsick  !  Yet 
in  the  end  the  sickness  was  unto  heal 
ing,  not  unto  death.  Celia  had  clung 
to  her  love  for  Mowbray  so  long  as  that 
love  could  frame  excuse  for  his  short 
comings.  But  eyes  and  heart  were  both 
opened,  at  last,  to  the  enormity  of  his 
offence.  She  saw,  as  if  clouds  had  been 
lifted  from  the  future  and  the  truth  let 
in,  that,  as  Sydenham  had  expressed  it, 
her  way  had  been  barred  in  mercy.  The 
blow  that  threatened  to  deprive  her  of 
fortune  and  reputable  name  had  saved 
her  from  marriage  with  an  unprincipled 
traitor.  She  was,  indeed,  very  heart- 
lonely  :  his  image,  all  unworthy  as  he 
was,  haunted  her  still ;  but  she  had 
weathered  the  breakers  on  which  a  life's 
happiness  might  have  been  wrecked. 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 
IN    LONDON   AND   CHISKAUGA. 

"  Blind  people  that  have  eyes." 

ISAIAH  xliii.  8. 

MR.  WILLIAMS,  intimately  acquaint 
ed  with  our  minister  to  England,  had 
furnished  his  nephew  with  a  letter  of 
introduction ;  and  the  minister,  who 
happened  to  have  met  Sir  Charles 
Conynghame  in  society,  gave  Creighton 
a  note  to  that  gentleman,  endorsing  the 
bearer's  character  and  standing.  The 
house  whither  the  Directory  led  the 
young  lawyer  was  in  a  narrow  street  of 
plain,  small  dwellings,  situated,  how 
ever,  in  a  fashionable  neighborhood. 


254 


BEYOXD    THE   BREAKERS. 


The  furniture  of  the  parlor  into  which, 
after  giving  a  servant  his  card  and  the 
minister's  letter,  Creighton  was  ushered, 
had  once  been  handsome,  but  was  now 
a  good  deal  the  worse  for  wear. 

The  hour  was  early  for  London,  but 
the  master  of  the  house,  attired  in  a  rich 
dressing-gown,  soon  made  his  appear 
ance.  His  manner  was  coldly  polite. 

"  You  are  a  lawyer  from  America,  I 
believe,  sir  ?" 

"Yes." 

"May  I  ask  what  procures  me  the 
honor  of  this  visit  ?" 

"  More  than  eight  years  since  a  ward 
of  yours,  Miss  Mary  Ellinor  Ethelridge 
Talbot,  suddenly  disappeared  from 
your  house.  She  is  now  living  in  a  vil 
lage  in  one  of  our  Western  States — the 
State  of  Ohio — and  she  has  employed 
me  professionally  to  confer  with  you  in 
regard  to  her  property  in  your  hands." 

"A  very  unlikely  story,  sir." 

"  True,  Sir  Charles ;  but  you  are  no 
doubt  familiar  with  the  French  proverb : 
'  Le  vrai  n'est  pas  toujours  le  vraisem- 
blable' — Things  that  seem  to  us  unlikely 
are  sometimes  the  exact  truth." 

"  You  expect  me  to  believe  that  Miss 
Talbot,  after  withholding  from  me,  for 
eight  or  nine  years,  all  knowledge  of 
her  existence,  has  suddenly  turned  up 
in  the  wilds  of  America?" 

"  Precisely,  except  that  you  are  slight 
ly  in  error  on  a  point  of  geography. 
The  wilds  of  America  are  about  a  thou 
sand  miles  west  of  Chiskauga,  where 
Miss  Talbot  resides." 

"  I  can  imagine  but  one  motive  for 
such  conduct,  and  that  might  invalidate 
your  client's  testimony." 

"What  motive  ?" 

"A  disreputable  life." 

"Out  again,  Sir  Charles.  With  this 
very  handsome  little  dagger" — handing 
him  one  with  a  smile — "on  the  after 
noon  of  the  seventeenth  of  May,  1848, 
Miss  Talbot  effectually  defended  her 
honor  against  a  very  disreputable  and 
very  constant  guest  of  yours,  Captain 
Halloran  of  the  Guards.  You  will  ob 
serve  that  the  Halloran  crest  is  on  the 
blade." 

"Pardon  me,  Mr. — "  referring  to  the 


letter  in  his  hand — "  Mr.  Creighton  ;  but 
Yankee  ingenuity  has  never  been  dis 
puted.  The  dirk  is  very  nicely  gotten 
up,  including  the  gilt  H  on  the  sheath — 
quite  a  capital  piece  of  workmanship. 
But  I  think  an  English  court  of  law 
would  hardly  believe  that  a  young  lady 
who  had  voluntarily  eloped  with  an 
officer  would  defend  herself,  the  same 
afternoon,  against  him,  using  his  own 
dagger." 

"We  are  losing  time,  Sir  Charles, 
fencing  with  blunt  foils.  It  would  no 
doubt  be  tedious  to  you  to  go  over  with 
me  these  documents,"  taking  a  package 
from  his  pocket :  "  perhaps  you  will 
kindly  refer  me  to  your  lawyers  ?" 

"Messrs.  Ashhurst  &  Morris,  Old 
Jewry." 

"  I  shall  have  the  honor  of  proving, 
to  the  satisfaction  of  these  gentlemen, 
that  Miss  Talbot,  deceived  by  shameful 
artifice  and  promise  of  immediate  mar 
riage,  was  conducted  to  a  house  of 
equivocal  character  —  was  introduced, 
by  Captain  Halloran,  to  the  mistress  of 
that  house  as  to  his  aunt ;  that,  after  the 
exhibition  of  what  purported  to  be  a 
special  license,  an  attempt  was  made  to 
perform  the  ceremony,  the  individual 
who  personated  the  clergyman  being 
the  captain's  valet ;  that  one  of  the 
habitues  of  your  house,  Sir  George  Per- 
cival,  was  present — " 

"Ah!" 

"  I  think  the  two  young  gentlemen 
afterward  had  a  duel  in  consequence  of 
what  passed.  We  shall  prove  that  Miss 
Talbot  refused  to  let  the  ceremony  pro 
ceed,  appealing  to  Sir  George  ;  that,  in 
consequence  of  his  remonstrance,  Cap 
tain  Halloran  promised  to  comply  with 
Miss  Talbot's  demand  to  be  driven 
home,  instead  of  which  he  conveyed 
her  to  his  own  private  apartments  ;  that 
when  he  attempted  insult  the  young 
lady,  snatching  from  his  parlor  mantel 
piece  the  dagger  which  I  had  the  honor 
of  showing  you — " 

"For  which  you  have  Miss  Talbot's 
testimony." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon — the  deposition 
of  an  honest,  brisk  young  Irish  fellow, 
Halloran's  groom." 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


255 


"  The  captain  admitted  his  groom  as 
witness  of  such  an  interview  ?  Credat 
Judtzus  !" 

"  I  do  not  ask  you  to  believe  that :  the 
captain  supposed  the  interview  to  be 
witnout  witness.  But  I  need  not  pro 
ceed  with  details  into  the  truth  of  which 
your  lawyers  will  inquire.  Miss  Talbot 
escaped  on  the  evening  of  her  abduc 
tion,  supported  herself  for  months  by 
needlework,  and  was  rescued  from  pov 
erty  and  approaching  blindness  by  an 
old  Quaker  gentleman,  my  uncle.  He 
procured  her  a  passage  to  America, 
where  she  remained  for  some  time  as 
governess  in  my  aunt's  family.  She  is 
now  the  principal  of  a  successful  sem 
inary  for  young  ladies  in  the  same  vil 
lage  in  which  I  myself  live,  and  is  en 
gaged  to  be  married  to  a  most  respect 
able  young  gentleman  in  good  circum 
stances." 

Sir  Charles,  as  his  visitor  proceeded 
calmly  with  these  details,  had  gradually 
become  very  grave.  Creighton's  easy, 
assured  manner  alarmed  him. 

"  I  can  say  nothing  in  regard  to  your 
extraordinary  story,  Mr.  Creighton,  un 
til  my  lawyers  report  to  me." 

"  Of  course  not,  Sir  Charles.  I  wish 
you  good-morning." 

The  senior  partner  of  the  law-firm 
proved  to  be  an  honest  and  judicious 
man.  Creighton  liked  him,  and  disclosed 
to  him  frankly  the  extent  of  his  powers. 
Ellinor  had  authorized  him  to  com 
pound  the  matter  with  her  guardian 
on  any  terms  he  (Creighton)  saw  fit  to 
accept. 

"  I  don't  mind  telling  you,  Mr.  Ash- 
hurst,"  he  said,  "that  Miss  Talbot  is 
extremely  unwilling  to  institute  legal 
proceedings  against  Sir  Charles.  Lady 
Conynghame  was  the  dearest  friend  of 
her  youth  —  a  second  mother  to  her. 
She  prefers  to  take  a  portion  only  of 
what  is  due  to  her,  if  necessary  to  avoid 
litigation." 

"  You  honor  me  by  such  plain  deal 
ing,  Mr.  Creighton,  and  you  shall  have 
no  cause  to  repent  it.  I  have  begged 
Sir  Charles,  again  and  again,  to  trans 
fer  his  law  business  to  some  other  firm — 
it  is  very  unpleasant  to  act  for  so  reck 


less  a  spendthrift — but  his  father  was 
very  kind  to  me  in  early  life,  and  the 
son  clings  to  me  still.  If  he  has,  as  I 
fear,  squandered  Miss  Talbot's  proper 
ty,  his  conduct  is  unpardonable.  But 
his  affairs  are  in  terrible  disorder ;  and 
he  has  great  difficulty  in  extracting  from 
the  ruins  of  an  excellent  property  a  de 
cent  support.  Leave  these  papers  with 
me  ;  and  if,  as  I  see  no  reason  to  doubt, 
your  case  is  satisfactorily  made  out,  I 
will  tell  you,  on  my  honor,  what  I  think 
Sir  Charles  can  do,  and  whether  he  is 
willing  to  do  it." 

Creighton  left  with  him  Sir  George 
Percival's  address  (in  London,  as  good 
luck  would  have  it) ;  Terence's  deposi 
tion  ;  his  own  affidavit,  detailing  the  at 
tempt  to  commit  suicide  ;  that  of  the  wo 
man  with  whom  Ellinor  had  boarded  as 
seamstress ;  that  of  Mr.  Williams  and 
of  his  sister ;  and  finally  Mr.  Williams' 
letter  recommending  Miss  Ethelridge  to 
Mr.  Sydenham. 

A  week  afterward,  Mr.  Ashhurst  said 
to  him,  on  returning  the  documents : 
"  You  have  worked  up  your  case  most 
creditably,  Mr.  Creighton.  It  is  clear 
as  noonday.  Ah !  I  mustn't  forget  to 
return  you  the  dirk — spolia  opima — that 
brave  young  lady's  property  by  right  of 
war.  By  the  way,  I  sought  out  the 
maker,  Rodgers,  and  he  showed  me,  on 
his  books  for  1846,  the  order  Halloran 
gave  for  that  very  dagger,  the  Halloran 
crest  to  be  enameled  on  the  blade." 

"What  will  Sir  Charles  do  ?" 

"Withdraw  at  once  the  suit  against 
Miss  Pembroke ;  and  as  to  your  client, 
I'm  really  ashamed  to  tell  you — " 

"  I'm  sure  you've  done  your  best,  Mr. 
Ashhurst." 

"  Indeed  I  have  ;  and  that  best  is  that 
Sir  Charles  proposes  to  pay  you,  against 
a  receipt  in  full,  three  thousand  pounds 
— little  more  than  one-fourth  of  what  he 
legally  owes  Miss  Talbot ;  but  to  raise 
it  he  will  have  to  resort  to  the  Jews  and 
submit  to  ruinously  usuriour  terms." 

"Three  thousand  pounds  only?" 

"  I  believe,  on  my  soul,  it  is  the  best 
he  can  do." 

"  Your  word  suffices,  Mr.  Ashhurst.  I 
accept  on  behalf  of  my  client." 


255 


BEYOND    THE   BREAKERS. 


"The  money  shall  be  paid  to  you 
within  three  days." 

Creighton  was  greatly  pleased.  For 
merly  he  had  liked  London  as  a  resi 
dence,  but  just  at  present  he  pined  for 
home. 

Meanwhile,  Celia  and  Ellinor  con 
tinued  their  school.  The  latter,  not 
withstanding  her  infirmity,  could  give 
lessons,  as  usual,  in  English  literature, 
in  history,  mathematics,  French  and 
other  branches — even  in  botany  and 
mineralogy.  She  continued— what  had 
always  been  her  habit  —  to  take  the 
senior  class  out  once  a  week  into  the 
forest.  She  could  still  distinguish  most 
of  the  wild  flowers  by  their  odor ;  and 
when  at  a  loss  she  caused  one  or  other 
of  her  pupils  minutely  to  describe  the 
specimen,  which  her  accurate  know 
ledge  of  botany  almost  always  enabled 
her  to  classify.  It  was  her  wont  also, 
when  they  reached  some  eminence 
commanding  an  extensive  prospect,  to 
require  of  each  in  succession  a  word- 
painting  of  some  portion  of  the  land 
scape,  or  perhaps  of  a  gorgeous  sunset, 
or  of  some  picturesque  effect  of  light 
and  shade  from  flitting  clouds. 

Two  excellent  results  were  thus  ob 
tained  :  the  girls  acquired  a  habit  of 
exact  observation,  and  a  facility  in  de 
scribing  what  they  observed.  The  prac 
tice  awoke  artistic  taste  and  a  love  of 
natural  beauty  ;  and  as  the  pupils  per 
ceived  the  pleasure  it  gave  their  teacher, 
their  affection  for  her  added  zest  to  the 
exercise  ;  so  that  it  became  at  last  one 
of  their  favorite  amusements. 

After  a  time,  too,  Ellinor,  greatly  to 
her  surprise,  found  that,  in  some  strange 
manner  for  which  she  could  never  ac 
count,  new  powers  came  to  herself. 
She  could  walk  unattended  throughout 
the  streets  of  the  village,  without  risk 
of  injury  or  d-^ger  of  losing  her  way. 
When  some  months  had  passed  there 
was  developed  a  faculty  even  more 
wonderful  than  this. 

It  happened,  one  afternoon,  that  a 
letter  arrived  from  Creighton,  stating 
the  result  of  his  negotiations  with  Sir 
Charles  Conynghame.  Ethan,  who  had 


been  out  all  day,  attending  to  some  sur 
veying  for  Mr.  Sydenham,  was  return 
ing  about  five  o'clock  on  horseback. 
As  he  rode  slowly  down  the  main  street 
of  the  village,  he  observed  Ellinor  on 
the  sidewalk  at  a  little  distance.  She 
was  approaching  a  ladder  that  had  been 
carelessly  left  standing  against  one  of 
the  houses.  Ethan  instinctively  check 
ed  his  horse,  and  was  about  to  call  out 
to  her  in  warning,  but,  as  she  came 
within  three  or  four  feet  of  the  ladder, 
she  turned  out  so  quietly  and  naturally 
to  avoid  it  that  he  was  half  tempted  to 
believe  she  had  recovered  her  sight. 
Nor  was  that  all.  There  were  two 
horsemen  a  little  in  advance  of  him. 
She  suffered  them  to  pass,  and  then  de 
liberately  crossed  to  where  her  lover, 
still  fixed  in  astonishment,  had  remain 
ed.  Coming  up  close  to  his  bridle-rein, 
she  laid  a  hand  on  his  horse's  neck  and 
said  :  "  Have  you  heard  the  news,  dear 
Ethan  ?  A  letter  from  Mr.  Creighton  : 
he  will  be  at  home  in  a  few  days." 

"Good  God!"  he  exclaimed,  startled 
out  of  all  self-possession,  "is  it  possible 
that  you  see,  Ellie  darling  ?" 

"  No :  I  shall  never  see  again ;  but 
God  is  very  good  to  me.  Without  sight, 
I  can  feel  my  way  to  you."* 

Ellinor  was  on  her  way  to  fulfill  an 
engagement  to  tea  at  Mrs.  Hartland's. 
In  the  evening  they  all  walked  down  to 
the  lake  to  visit  Mrs.  Creighton  and 
ascertain  whether  she  too  had  a  letter 
from  her  son. 

The  genial  old  lady  was  in  high  spir 
its,  with  a  long  letter  on  the  table  be 
fore  her.  Ellinor  expressed  her  entire 
satisfaction  with  the  settlement  that  had 
been  made,  and  asked  if  Creighton's 
letter  to  his  mother  contained  any  fur 
ther  news. 

*  Ellinor's  case  is  not  an  isolated  one.  A  friend  of 
the  author,  a  physician  in  good  practice  in  Philadel 
phia,  has  had  two  blind  patients  with  similar  powers. 
Driving  in  his  coupe  one  day  in  a  crowded  street  of  the 
city,  he  saw  one  of  these,  an  elderly  man,  after  avoid 
ing  an  obstacle  on  the  pavement,  step  down  into  the 
street  and  come  up  to  the  side  of  his  carriage  to  ask  a 
question.  When  the  doctor  inquired  how  he  knew  it 
was  he,  and  how  he  could  thus  find  his  way,  he  could 
give  no  explanation  except  that  it  "came  to  him." 
This  man  had  what  have  been  called  mediumistic  pow 
ers,  but  he  had  never  exercised  them  professionally. 


BEYOND    THE   BREAKERS. 


257 


"Yes,  an  article  that  may  interest 
Celia  :  he  met,  in  London,  her  old  friend 
Miss  Ballantyne,  now  Mrs.  Stanhope, 
on  her  bridal  tour." 

Elizabeth  Ballantyne,  a  connexion  of 
Mr.  Hartland,  and  formerly  a  resident 
of  Chiskauga,  had  left  the  village  two 
years  before  on  a  visit  to  Columbus,  and 
they  had  recently  heard  of  her  marriage 
to  a  gentleman  of  wealth  and  position, 
some  twenty -five  or  thirty  years  her 
senior. 

"  I  should  so  much  like  to  know  how 
Lizzie  and  her  husband  get  on,"  said 
Celia  to  Mrs.  Creighton. 

"Quite  as  well  as  could  be  expected, 
Eliot  says,  considering  the  disparity  be 
tween  twenty-three  years  and  fifty." 

"  That  considering  must  be  a  terrible 
drawback,  I  think,"  Ethan  said.  "I 
have  no  faith  in  such  matches.  I'm 
sorry  for  Lizzie." 

"Yet  she  may  have  married  for  love," 
rejoined  Mrs.  Creighton.  "  I  saw  a  news 
paper  paragraph  the  other  day — wheth 
er  true  or  not,  of  course  one  can't  tell — 
about  General  Changarnier.  I  think  it 
was  while  he  was  commander-in-chief 
of  the  army  of  Paris,  under  the  Presi 
dency  of  Louis  Napoleon.  He  had  been 
invited  (so  the  story  ran)  to  a  large  din 
ner-party,  at  which  the  subject  of  mar 
riage  between  young  girls  and  old  men 
— so  common  in  France  —  came  up. 
The  general,  himself  a  bachelor  of  some 
fifty-five  winters,  took  strong  ground 
against  the  custom,  saying  he  thought 
it  a  scandalous  thing  for  a  man  ad 
vanced  in  life  to  seek  in  marriage  an 
inexperienced  creature  of  less  than  half 
his  years,  just  entering  the  world.  A 
young  lady,  wealthy  and  well  connect 
ed,  recently  come  out,  and  who  had 
been  observed  to  listen  with  eager  eyes 
and  changing  color,  suddenly  complain 
ed  of  illness  and  was  compelled  to  leave 
the  dinner-table." 

"She  might,"  broke  in  Ethan,  "have 
been  enamored  of  his  rank  or  of  his 
African  renown." 

"Perhaps.     Yet  that  was  a  remark 
able  mode  of  shoAving  such  a  species  of 
affection.     And  she  might  have  really 
loved  him — if  not  exactly  for  himself,  at 
17 


least,  like  Desdemona,  '  for  the  dangers 
he  had  passed.'  At  all  events,  the  cir 
cumstance  excited  remarks  which  came 
to  the  general's  ears.  Explanations  fol 
lowed  which  opened  his  eyes— or  his 
heart.  The  young  lady,  who  had  fainted 
after  she  left  the  room,  revived,  and  is 
now  Mrs.  General  Changarnier." 

"  I  haven't  a  bit  of  faith,"  said  Ethan, 
"  in  a  man  marrying  for  pity,  or  because 
a  young  lady's  secret  has  leaked  out." 

"Yet  that  will  happen,  sometimes; 
and  then  the  vanity  of  fifty-five  is  very 
apt  to  be  flattered  by  the  love  of  twenty- 
one." 

"A  vanity-prompted  match  is  worst 
of  all." 

"That's  true  enough,  Mr.  Hartland. 
All  I  meant  to  say,  as  possibly  applying 
to  Celia's  friend,  is,  that  young  ladies 
are  wayward,  and  will  sometimes  fancy 
old  men." 

Mrs.  Hartland  did  not  intend  to  look 
at  Celia,  and  very  surely  Celia  did  not 
intend  to  blush.  Yet  both  things  hap 
pened  ;  and  though  Mrs.  Creighton  was 
too  well  bred  to  betray  that  she  noticed 
it,  she  certainly  did. 

There  was  a  somewhat  awkward 
pause.  To  make  matters  worse,  just  at 
that  moment  Sydenham  entered,  and 
Celia,  to  her  utter  discomfiture,  felt  her 
blush  deepen.  She  could  have  pommel 
ed  herself  from  sheer  mortification  at 
being  so  silly,  and  at  feeling  embar 
rassed,  as  she  did,  in  replying  to  Syd- 
enham's  greeting.  Mrs.  Hartland  evi 
dently  shared  her  embarrassment,  and 
Mrs.  Creighton  looked  so  grave  that 
Sydenham  said,  involuntarily,  "No  bad 
news,  I  hope,  from  your  son  ?" 

The  question  seemed  to  recall  her  from 
some  uneasy  train  of  thought.  "Only 
good  news,"  ahe  said,  smiling.  "He 
has  arranged  the  business  of  these  young 
ladies,  and  I  trust  we  shall  see  him  in 
a  few  days." 

This  led  to  a  business  talk  in  connec 
tion  with  the  compromise  Creighton  had 
effected,  and  with  which  Sydenham  was 
much  pleased.  As  no  further  allusion 
was  made  by  any  one  to  the  Stanhopes 
or  to  General  Changarnier,  the  rest  of 
the  evening  passed  off  tranquilly.  Syd- 


25S 


BE  YOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


enham  accompanied  the  Hartland  par 
ty  home. 

A  week  later,  one  chilly  autumn  even 
ing,  Mrs.  Creighton's  little  parlor  looked 
cheerful  by  the  bright  firelight.  Two 
hours  before,  her  son  had  arrived,  bring 
ing  with  him,  on  a  visit  from  Philadel 
phia,  his  sister  Harriet  Clifford,  a  young 
widow  without  children ;  but  she  was 
up  stairs,  unpacking  her  trunk. 

Eliot  had  wheeled  a  sofa  toward  the 
fire,  and  was  seated  beside  his  mother, 
his  arm  round  her  waist. 

He  passed  a  hand  caressingly  over  the 
soft,  smooth  bands  of  the  gray-streaked 
hair  :  "  I  wonder  if  you'll  ever  seem  old 
to  me,  mother  ?  It  won't  do  for  you  to 
be  a  grandmother  till  you  get  one  or 
two  respectable  wrinkles." 

"  If  I  thought  that  was  the  only  ob 
stacle,  I'd  try  to  be  grave  and  thought 
ful,  so  as  to  qualify  myself." 

"But  you  think  there  may  be  other 
obstacles?" 

"  Perhaps.  Harry,  poor  child !  thinks 
there  never  was  such  a  man  as  her  hus 
band — unless,  maybe,  her  brother ;  and 
her  brother — " 

"You  don't  think  his  chances  of  mar 
rying  are  good,  either  ?" 

The  mother  hesitated  :  "  I  wonder  if 
anybody's  son,  twenty-six  years  of  age, 
ever  chose  his  old  mother  for  confidante 
before  ?" 

"Can't  say.  Everybody  is  not  as 
wise  as  your  son,  mother  dear,  nor  as 
lucky.  They  might  not  get  the  exact 
truth  in  return  for  their  confidence — as 
I  shall."  He  tried  to  say  it  lightly,  but 
the  mother  detected  his  deep  emotion. 
How  willingly  she  would  have  suffered 
it  all  for  him  !  But  each  must  bear  his 
own  burden ;  and  then,  after  all,  what 
did  she  really  know  ? 

"  I  feel  sure  she  is  not  engaged,  and, 
for  aught  I  can  tell,  there  may  be  no 
chance  that  she  will  be ;  but  you  are 
right  about  getting  the  exact  truth  from 
me."  And  she  told  him  the  Changar- 
nier  episode. 

Of  the  elements  that  make  up  the  pas 
sion  of  jealousy  there  was,  in  Creighton's 
nature,  but  one — if  indeed  it  be  one — 
its  sorrow.  Terribly  grieved  and  dis 


appointed  he  was.  He  felt,  as  thou 
sands  have  felt  in  ages  past,  as  thou 
sands  in  ages  to  come  will  feel,  that 
there  was  no  more  cheering  sunshine 
for  him  in  this  life — that  his  path  hence 
forth  was  in  the  cold  gray  twilight. 
Then  it  came  over  him  that  he  couldn't 
give  her  up.  Shakespeare,  interpreter 
of  every  human  emotion,  had  truly 
interpreted  his : 

"  For  where  thou  art,  there  is  the  world  itself, 
With  every  several  pleasure  in  the  world  ; 
And  where  thou  art  not,  desolation." 

He  did  not  doubt  his  fate :  bold  and 
self-reliant  in  worldly  affairs,  he  was 
diffident,  as  true  love  is  till  one  blessed 
word  is  spoken.  But  not  for  that  was 
his  esteem,  his  friendship  for  Sydenham 
one  jot  the  less.  "She  could  not  have 
made  a  worthier  choice,"  he  said  to  his 
mother,  sadly,  not  bitterly. 

"  I'm  not  sure  that  she  has — " 

Harriet,  who  came  in  at  the  moment, 
overheard  the  words :  "  Done  what, 
mother?  Gone  and  engaged  herself? 
In  trouble,  poor  brother?"  going  up  to 
him  and  kissing  him.  Then,  to  her 
mother:  "Would  she  have  done  fora 
daughter-in-law  ?" 

Eliot  could  hardly  help  smiling,  de 
spite  his  heavy  heart.  His  looks  ex 
pressed  his  surprise. 

"Eliot  dear,"  she  went  on,  "if  any 
one  has  a  sister  that  he  cares  for,  and 
that  he  considers  a  good  judge  of  her 
sex,  and  if  he  wishes  to  keep  her  in  the 
dark,  he  shouldn't  talk  to  her  a  dozen 
times  in  the  course  of  a  three-days' 
journey  about  one  particular  young 
lady  that  he  hopes  she  will  like.  But 
you  haven't  answered  my  question, 
mother." 

"  Eliot  and  I  seldom  disagree  in  mat 
ters  of  taste.  Whether  she  will  do  for 
a  sister-in-law  I  can't  tell.  Have  you 
made  up  your  mind  that  anything  mor 
tal  is  worthy  of  that  brother  of  yours  ? 
I  hope  you've  kept  up  your  music  lately : 
before  Eliot  marries  you  ought  to  have 
St.  Cecilia's  power.  You  know 

'  She  drew  an  angel  down.'  " 

"  But  if  the  angels  are  all  of  one  sex, 
mother,  that  wouldn't  help  matters." 
"  I  don't  believe  they  are." 


BE  YOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


259 


"Neither  does  brother,  I  know.  Is 
she  angelic  ?" 

"No,"  replied  her  mother.  "She's  a 
good,  lovable  mortal,  very  pretty,  too, 

1  Not  too  fair  and  good 
For  human  nature's  daily  food.' 

I  used  to  think  her  somewhat  weak  of 
purpose,  and  a  little  sentimental  in  her 
ways,  but  when  she  believed  her  money 
to  be  lost,  and  since,  she  has  shown  cha 
racter  and  force." 

"  She  has  a  noble  spirit,"  Eliot  put  in  : 
"any  man  might  be  proud  of  such  a 
wife." 

"I  think  St.  Celia  will  do,"  said 
Harriet.  "May  I  hear  how  it  stands, 
brother  ?" 

"Tell  her,  mother."  And  Harriet 
heard  all  about  the  telltale  blush  and 
the  French  general. 

"You  did  very  well,"  she  said  to  her 
brother,  "to  admit  me  as  a  confidante. 
I'm  little  more  than  a  girl  yet"— with  a 
sigh_"  and  girls  get  to  learn  each 
other's  secrets.  Don't  imagine  I  have 
the  least  intention  of  prying  into  your 
lady-love's.  But  I  want  to  tell  you 
what  happened  to  me  a  few  weeks  ago. 
I  have  a  very  dear  friend,  some  eighteen 
years  old,  who  has  just  such  a  trick  of 
blushing  as  your  Celia  has." 

"My  Celia!" 

"  Never  mind :  it  was  a  slip  of  the 
tongue  ;  and  who  knows  but  it  may  all 


come  right  some  day?  Lucy — that's 
the  young  girl's  name — asked  me  one 
day  if  I  could  give  her  any  idea  how 
she  might  cure  herself  of  a  weakness  so 
annoying.  4 1  can't  tell  you,'  she  said 
to  me,  '  how  often  these  foolish  cheeks 
of  mine  give  false  notions  of  my  feel 
ings  :  people  will  put  silly  things  in 
girls'  heads,  and  then  if  -I  blush  when 
something  recalls  the  idle  nonsense,  it's 
set  down  to  a  serious  fancy  or  a  hidden 
passion,  when  nothing  is  farther  from 
my  thoughts.'  Now,  Eliot,  may  not 
Lucy's  case  be  this  young  lady's  also  ?" 
Creighton  began  to  think  that  possi 
bly  it  might.  "Would  you  mind,  moth 
er,"  he  said,  "if  I  left  you  for  half  an 
hour  or  so  ?  I  hate  to  do  it  this  first 
night,  but  I  suppose  I  ought  to  report 
progress,  just  in  a  few  words,  to  these 
young  ladies." 

"  Of  course  you  ought.  Take  an  hour 
or  more :  Harry  and  I  have  hardly  had 
a  chance  for  chat  yet.  And,  Eliot,  I 
think  you  had  better  go  first  to  Mrs. 
Hartland's.  Ellinor  is  very  often  there 
in  the  evenings." 

Ellinor  was  there,  and  Sydenham 
was  not ;  yet  it  was  an  hour  and  a  half 
before  Creighton  returned  home.  And 
though  he  lay  awake  that  night  for  two 
hours,  thinking  over  his  reception,  he 
could  not  make  up  his  mind  whethei 
he  ought  to  hope  or  despair. 


PART    X  IV. 


CHAPTER  XLVII. 

A   FRUITLESS    RIDE,    AND     OTHER    MATTERS. 
"  Le  bonheur  tient  aux  affections  plus  qu'  aux  evene- 
mens." — MADAME  ROLAND. 

WHO  is  Dr.  Rowe?"  said  Ellinor: 
they  were  speaking  French,  and 
it  was  in  Meyrac's  parlor,  after  tea. 

"  I  think  Monsieur  le  Docteur  must 
have  heard  of  him,"  Creighton  replied. 

"Is  it  the  philanthropist,"  asked  Mey- 
rac,  "who  has  done  so  much  for  the  be 
nevolent  institutions  of  New  England 
and  for  the  education  of  deaf-mutes  and 
of  the  blind  ?" 

.  "The  same.  I  made  his  acquaintance 
a  few  days  since,  in  passing  through 
Boston." 

"  I  should  have  been  enchanted  to  be 
of  the  party." 

"  His  conversation  would  have  inte 
rested  you.  I  asked  him  which  he 
considered  the  greater  loss  —  sight  or 
hearing." 

"  That  does  interest  me.     Well  ?" 

"  His  reply  surprised  me.  '  There  is 
no  comparison,'  he  said ;  adding  that 
he  had  sometimes  half  doubted  whether, 
under  favorable  social  conditions,  loss 
of  sight  was  a  misfortune  at  all.  '  I  knew 
a  lady,'  he  went  on  to  say,  '  the  head  of 
a  family  with  several  children,  who  be 
came  blind  a  good  many  years  ago. 
She  was  a  somewhat  nervous,  anxious 
creature  before  her  loss :  now  she  is 
cheerful,  tranquil.'  Dr.  Rowe  thought 
her  husband  really  loved  her  better,  ad 
mired  her  more,  than  he  had  ever  done ; 
and  the  relation  between  mother  and 
children  was  beautiful." 

"  Yet  we  must  not  generalize  too  has 
tily,"  Ellinor  put  in. 

"  I  do  not  think  Dr.  Rowe  did.  I 
suggested  that  probably  this  was  a 
bright,  lively,  affectionate  household. 
He  admitted  that  it  was,  and  that  with 
other  surroundings  the  result  might 
have  been  very  different.  '  The  blind,' 
he  said,  '  live  more  in  the  world  of  the 
affections  than  we  do,  and  that  is  the 
260 


highest  world,  after  all.  Their  pleas 
ures  are  more  strictly  social  than  ours  : 
they  miss  love  more,  and  they  enjoy  it 
more.  Blindness,  to  a  convict  in  soli 
tary  confinement,  might  become  an  in 
tolerable  affliction,  far  heavier  than  loss 
of  hearing.  But  in  cheerful  society  it 
is  natural  that  the  deaf,  daily  witness 
ing  the  outward  signs  of  thoughts  and 
emotions  that  escape  them,  should  be 
fretful  or  impatient,  for  the  tender  voice, 
the  accent  of  affection,  cannot  be  inter 
preted  through  the  fingers.'  The  doctor 
added  that  it  was  his  firm  belief,  found 
ed  on  years  of  daily  observation,  that 
the  inmates  of  a  well-conducted  blind 
asylum  were  happier  and  better  satis 
fied  with  their  lot  than  the  average  of 
persons  without  its  walls." 

"As  to  that,"  said  Meyrac,  "I  agree 
with  him.  Yet  if  the  regulations  out 
side  of  the  asylum  were  as  wise  as  those 
within  it,  that  might  alter  the  case." 

"And  then,"  added  Ellinor,  "it  can 
not  be  denied  that  in  losing  sight  we 
lose  much  power  of  usefulness." 

"That  depends,"  said  Creighton.  "Are 
you  sure  that  children  would  not  be 
better  taught  if  instruction  came  more 
by  conversation  and  less  through  books  ? 
By  the  way,"  he  added,  taking  a  volume 
from  his  pocket.  "  I've  brought  a  little 
book  for  your  acceptance,  Miss  Ellinor. 
You  know  of  Francis  Huber?" 

"The  naturalist,  who  wrote  so  much 
on  the  domestic  economy  of  the  bees  ?" 

"The  blind  man  who,  fifty  years  ago, 
dictated  to  his  wife,  Maria  Aimee — well 
named  ! — a  book  that  is  still  considered 
the  best  authority  on  the  subject.  Some 
of  his  eulogists  assert — but  I  dare  say 
that's  exaggerated — that  nothing  of  im 
portance  has  been  added  to  the  natural 
history  of  the  bee  since  his  time." 

"You  were  thinking  of  a  blind  friend, 
Mr.  Creighton  :  that's  like  you.  Does 
the  volume  contain  the  result  of  Huber's 
observations  ?" 

"  No — the  memoir  of  his  life  by  his 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


261 


friend,  Monsieur  de  Candolle ;  and  with 
such  a  pretty  love-story  in  it !" 

"  May  not  one  hear  that  ?"  asked  Lu 
cille  Meyrac. 

"Certainly,  mademoiselle.  When  Hu- 
ber  was  little  more  than  a  boy,  he  and 
the  daughter  of  a  Swiss  magistrate, 
named  Lullin,  fell  in  love  with  each 
other.  Even  then  he  had  commenced 
his  researches ;  and  blindness  was 
brought  on,  while  he  was  still  quite 
young,  from  intenseness  and  minute 
ness  of  observation.  The  prudent 
father,  thinking  no  doubt,  like  you, 
Miss  Ellinor,  that  the  youth's  usefulness 
was  hopelessly  impaired,  forbade  the 
match." 

"Ah,  what  unhappiness !"  said  Lu 
cille. 

"  The  noble  girl  declared  that  she 
would  have  submitted  to  her  parents' 
will  if  the  man  of  her  choice  could  have 
done  without  her.  As  it  was,  she  re 
fused  many  brilliant  offers,  waited  till 
she  was  her  own  mistress  at  twenty-five, 
then  married  her  first  love,  shared  his 
enthusiasm  and  his  labors  for  forty 
years,  and  aided  to  make  her  husband 
one  of  the  celebrated  men  of  his  day. 
'As  long  as  she  lived,'  he  said  in  his 
old  age,  '  I  was  not  sensible  of  the  mis 
fortune  of  being  blind.'  " 

"But  that  is  altogether  charming," 
exclaimed  Lucille.  "Shall  I  read  it  to 
you  when  you  have  leisure,  Mademoi 
selle  Eleonore  ?" 

"  Dear  child,  yes :  I  shall  be  de 
lighted." 

Just  then  Ethan  joined  their  party, 
and  Ellinor  told  him  of  Creighton's  gift. 

Meanwhile,  Lucille,  who  had  taken 
up  the  book,  smiled  brightly  at  some 
thing  that  met  her  eye. 

"  I'm  curious  to  know  what  that  is," 
said  Creighton. 

"May  I  read,  mamma?" 

"  Certainly,  my  child,  if  Monsieur 
Creighton  desires  it."  So  Lucille  read: 

"  Huber  was  habitually  cheerful. 
When  any  one  spoke  to  him  on  sub 
jects  which  interested  his  heart,  his 
noble  figure  became  strikingly  ani 
mated,  and  the  vivacity  of  his  counte 
nance  seemed,  by  a  mysterious  magic, 


even  to  light  up  his  eyes,  which  had 
been  so  long  condemned  to  blindness." 

"I  know  who  is  just  like  him,"  the 
girl  added. 

Ethan's  looks  showed  that  he  knew  it 
too.  How  late  he  stayed  that  night  I 
don't  know,  nor  did  Dr.  Meyrac  :  on 
such  occasions  he  always  trusted  Elli 
nor  to  lock  up  the  house. 

Next  morning,  Ethan  called  on 
Creighton  to  ask  if  he  would  act  as 
"groomsman"  in  a  ceremony  to  be 
performed  that  day  three  weeks. 

"  Most  willingly  ;  but  you  take  me  by 
surprise." 

"We  did  not  intend  to  marry  till  next 
spring,  when  our  cottage  on  the  lake 
will  be  ready ;  but  mother  told  us  that 
if  we  wished  to  make  her  happy,  we 
would  have  the  marriage  at  once  and 
spend  the  winter  with  her.  Last  even 
ing  I  got  Ellinor's  consent." 

"An  excellent  arrangement,  I  think." 

"I  want  your  aid  in  settling  all  her 
property  upon  her." 

"Ah  ?  That  is  right :  I'll  attend  to  it 
with  pleasure.  If  we  lived  a  dozen 
miles  farther  west — just  over  the  Indi 
ana  line — it  would  be  unnecessary  :  the 
State  laws  there  anticipate  such  inten 
tion  as  yours.  Marriage  in  Indiana, 
since  the  year  1853,  conveys  to  the  hus 
band  no  property,  either  real  or  per 
sonal,  of  the  bride.  But  as  to  that 
matter,  we,  this  side  of  the  line,  are  still, 
like  Simon  the  Sorcerer,  '  in  the  gall  of 
bitterness ' — or,  which  is  pretty  much 
the  same  thing,  in  the  bonds  of  the 
common  law." 

"  I  thought  that  had  been  modified 
some  ten  years  ago." 

"Slightly:  so  that  the  husband's  in 
terest  in  the  real  estate  of  the  wife  can 
not  be  taken  for  his  debts,  nor  conveyed 
nor  encumbered  without  the  wife's  con 
currence  ;  and  one  or  two  other  similar 
items.  But  a  husband  in  Ohio  becomes 
the  absolute  owner  of  his  wife's  personal 
property,  even  so  far  that  if  both  unite 
in  selling  her  land,  the  money  received 
for  it  is  his,  and  if  he  buys  other  land 
with  it,  that  too  is  his,  and  descends  to 
his  heirs.  As  to  the  wife's  real  estate, 
he  cannot,  indeed,  sell  it  without  her 


262 


BEYOND    THE   BREAKERS. 


concurrence  ;  but,  except  in. case  of  de 
sertion  or  failure  to  provide  for  his  fam 
ily,  he  has  the  control  of  it,  and  the 
rents  and  profits  are  his  while  the  mar 
riage  lasts." 

"Twelve  miles  of  longitude  make  all 
that  difference  !" 

"Even  so;  yet  an  Indiana  lawyer 
told  me,  the  other  day,  that  he  did  not 
believe  one  vote  in  twenty  of  their  peo 
ple  could  now  be  had  to  change  the 
law  back  again." 

"Well,  one  Ohio  wife  shall  have 
the  same  rights  as  if  she  were  an  In- 
dianian." 

"The  wonder  is,  Mr.  Hartland,  that 
any  man  can  omit  such  an  act  of  com 
mon  justice  without  feeling  self-con 
demned  as  a  tyrant." 

After  paying  all  law-expenses  (includ 
ing  a  fee  of  one  thousand  dollars,  which 
they  had  the  greatest  difficulty  in  get 
ting  Creighton  to  accept,  his  charge  be 
ing  five  hundred  dollars  only)  each  of 
the  sisters  had  about  twenty-six  thou 
sand  dollars,  invested  so  as  to  bring  in 
nearly  eighteen  hundred  a  year.  They 
were  rich ! — far  richer,  they  both  felt, 
than  either  had  ever  been  in  her  life 
before.  They  would  not  have  been 
poor  if  they  had  lost  it  all. 

After  Ethan  had  looked  over  the 
statement  of  Ellinor's  property,  and 
was  about  to  go,  Creighton  felt  tempted 
to  inquire  who  was  to  be  bridemaid, 
but  he  refrained  :  it  would  be  the  bride's 
sister,  of  course.  The  thought  made 
him  grave. 

The  marriage  was  quite  private  and 
simple.  The  bridegroom  was  more 
self-possessed  than  his  groomsman,  and 
Celia  showed  evident  emotion  ;  prob 
ably  because,  as  soon  as  breakfast  was 
over,  she  was  to  part  with  her  sister  on 
a  ten-days'  tour  to  Niagara  and  the 
Canadas.  Dr.  Meyrac  gave  the  bride 
away.  When  the  carriage  which  con 
veyed  the  two  to  the  station  had  driven 
off,  he  said  to  his  wife  :  "But  it  is  aston 
ishing  !  One  reads  of  such  things—" 

"  What  things,  my  friend  ?" 

"That  face  of  young  Hartland's.  I 
wish  I  were  sure  that  any  of  us  will 
have  such  moments  by  and  by  in 


heaven  as  he  is  having  now  in  that 
fiacre." 

"  But,  Alphonse,  has  not  the  good 
God—" 

"Without  doubt.  It  may  be  that  it 
is  all  well  arranged.  Yet  one  likes  to 
be  certain,  my  dear.  In  waiting  let  us 
hope."  And  he  took  his  hat  and  cane 
to  visit  a  patient. 

The  next  day  was  Saturday,  with  a 
bright  November  sun  cheating  one  into 
the  belief  that  winter  was  yet  afar  off. 
Mrs.  Creighton  and  her  daughter  sat  in 
the  afternoon  sewing. 

The  girl  dropped  her  work  on  her 
knee:  "So  Eliot's  gone  out  riding  with 
Miss  Pembroke  ?" 

"Yes." 

"How  much  does  that  mean  in  this 
part  of  the  country,  mother  ?" 

"  Not  much  if  it  happen  but  occasion 
ally  ;  only  that  the  girl  thinks  well  of 
her  cavalier,  and  has  no  objections  to 
become  better  acquainted  with  him." 

"That's  something;  but  of  course  she 
thinks  well  of  brother,  and  who  wouldn't 
want  to  be  better  acquainted  with  him  ? 
Still,  you  think  she  might  say  yes  to 
somebody  else  next  week  ?" 

"Certainly,  and  no  one  would  think 
strange  of  it." 

"Well,  that's  sensible  ;  and  she  looks 
like  a  sensible  girl  and  a  nice  girl 
enough  :  then  twenty-six  thousand  dol 
lars  is  a  convenience  for  a  young 
lawyer — " 

"For  Goodness'  sake,  Harry,  don't 
say  that  before  your  brother  :  he's  crazy 
enough  on  that  subject  already." 

"He's  a  noble  fellow,  and  I  won't 
plague  him.  But  I  can't  see  why  the 
male  animal,  when  he  accepts  without 
scruple  a  maiden's  '  priceless  affec 
tions ' — with  a  life's  devotion  thrown 
in — should  shy  off  at  a  little  yellow 
dross.  Then  she  ought  to  be  very 
grateful  to  him  for  the  skill  and  care  he 
has  shown  in  recovering  her  property,  to 
say  nothing  of  saving  her  sister's  life." 

"Worse  and  worse,  Harry  !  Do  pray 
be  careful.  If  there's  one  thing  Eliot 
has  a  horror  of,  it's  marrying  a  woman 
who  should  accept  him  out  of  gratitude. 
He's  haunted  by  that  idea." 


BEYOND    THE   BREAKERS. 


263 


"Yet  gratitude,  like  pity,  is  akin  to 
love." 

"Or  to  friendship.  Mr.  Sydenham 
is  a  charming  man,  very  handsome,  I 
think,  and  doesn't  look  a  day  over 
thirty-five  years  old — hardly  that.  And 
the  girl  may  have  no  heart  to  give." 

Harriet  took  up  her  work  with  a  sigh. 
"I  won't  think  anything  more  about  it," 
she  said,  resolutely  ;  but  I  don't  believe 
she  kept  her  word.  It  was  a  scarlet 
sacque  she  was  making,  and  thoughts 
must  have  been  worked  in  with  the 
stitches,  for  she  never  after  took  it  out 
to  wear  without  thinking  of  Eliot  and 
Celia. 

A  little  later  the  brother  returned. 
He  said  not  a  word  beyond  common 
places  till  after  tea.  Then  he  asked 
his  sister:  "You'll  stay  with  us  this 
winter,  Harry  ?  Or  is  somebody  with 
a  heartache  waiting  for  you  in  Phil 
adelphia  ?" 

"Nothing  of  the  sort." 

"Then  you  can  stay.  I  must  work 
hard  now,  and  I  will." 

"  I  wonder  if  I  could  guess  what  put 
it  in  your  head  to  ask  me,  just  this  min 
ute,  about  staying?" 

"  Don't  you  believe  that  I  like  to  have 
you  with  us?" 

"  Indeed  I  do  :  you're  a  jewel  of  a 
brother.  I  wish  I  were  a  certain  young 
lady  that  I  wot  of,  or  else  that  she  knew, 
as  well  as  I  do,  what  a  jewel  of  a  hus 
band  you'd  make." 

"A  girl  may  think  that  a  young  fellow 
would  make  a  creditable  husband,  and 
yet  fancy  some  one  else  and  marry  him." 

"  No  doubt.  Will  you  give  me  a  penny 
for  my  thoughts  ?" 

"A. silver  penny,  if  I  had  it — copper's 
too  base :  ah !  here's  a  tiny  three-cent 
piece." 

"You  were  thinking  that  if  a  man's 
ladye-love  refuses  him,  what's  best  for 
him,  and  what  he  ought  to  turn  to,  is 
hard  work ;  and  that's  quite  true. 
Then  you  were  thinking,  besides,  that 
if  a  man  works  hard  all  day,  and  hasn't 
a  nice  wife  to  come  home  to  for  comfort 
in  the  evenings,  the  next  most  comfort 
ing  things  are  a  nice  mother  and  sister. 
The  mother  might  see  that  the  tea  was 


warm  and  strong  and  the  omelettes  up 
to  the  Paris  notch  ;  and  the  sister,  that 
no  button  was  off  and  no  stocking  un- 
darned.  I  think  I'll  stay." 

"  You're  a  clairvoyante,  Harry,  and  a 
dear  girl  besides,"  with  a  kiss. 

"Poor  brother!"  giving  him  two  in 
return. 

"What  did  she  say,  Eliot  dear?" 
asked  his  mother  in  a  low  voice. 

"I'm  ashamed  to  tell  you.  I  think 
it's  the  nature  of  women  to  think  better 
of  us  men  than  we  deserve.  She  said  : 
'  You're  as  good  as  you  can  be,  Mr. 
Creighton.  I  honor  you,  and  I  feel  the 
honor  you  have  done  me.  I  owe  you, 
for  saving  Ellie  from  death,  a  debt  of 
gratitude  that  a  lifetime  couldn't  pay. 
But  I  think  far  too  highly  of  you  to  offer 
what  you  ought  not  to  accept — what  I 
know  you  would  refuse  —  a  divided 
heart.'  " 

"She's  a  good  child,  brother.  It's 
hard  for  a  girl  that's  not  engaged  to  let 
a  man  into  such  a  secret.  She  does 
honor  and  trust  you,  or  she  wouldn't 
have  done  it.  I'll  stay  and  get  better 
acquainted  with  her." 

"It's  no  business  of  ours,"  said  Mrs. 
Creighton,  "and  I'll  try  to  put  it  out  of 
my  head  ;  but  I  should  like  to  know  just 
how  Mr.  Sydenham  feels  toward  her." 

"As  if  any  one  she  cared  for  could 
help  loving  her!"  said  poor  Eliot,  with 
a  deep  sigh. 

"So  you've  made  up  your  mmd," 
said  Harriet,  "that  it's  Mr.  Sydenham  ?" 

"  If  you  had  seen  her  blush  when  she 
could  hardly  get  that  little  mare  of  hers, 
Bess,  past  the  lane  that  turns  off  to  Rose- 
bank,  you  wouldn't  ask  that." 

"Ah,  well!  it  can't  be  helped.  There's 
a  wide,  wide  gap  between  a  wife  and  a 
sister,  or  even  between  a  wife  and  a 
mother,  Eliot;  but  yet — " 

"  Don't,  Harry.  I  must  get  such  fan 
cies  out  of  my  head.  I  must  work, 
work  !"  The  mother's  eyes  filled  with 
tears,  but  she  said  nothing.  He  went 
on  :  "  Help  me  to  think  of  that,  mother. 
And  help  me  to  remember  how  many 
millions  never  dreamed  of  such  love  as 
is  mine  already,  here  by  this  fireside." 

Happy  they  who  can  turn  from  what 


264 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


they  have  lost  to  what  they  still  enjoy  ! 
It  was  a  bright,  blithe  fireside,  and  the 
little  group  gathered  around  it  loved 
each  other,  in  a  quiet  way,  very  dearly. 
To  any  one  who  was  himself  of  genial 
temperament  there  was  a  charming 
home-atmosphere,  redolent  of  peace 
and  harmony,  about  that  pretty  cottage 
and  its  inmates.  Alas  !  that  such  oases 
are  found  but  here  and  there  amid  the 
social  bleakness  of  this  lower  world ! 

Early  next  morning  Harriet  Clifford 
met  Celia  Pembroke  on  her  way  to  the 
Chiskauga  Institute.  She  turned  and 
they  walked  on  together.  "  Miss  Pem 
broke,"  she  said,  "I  taught  school  for 
eighteen  months  when  I  was  a  girl 
younger  than  you.  Let  me  help  with 
your  sister's  classes  till  she  returns.  I 
want  something  to  do." 

"I  shall  be  delighted.  I  was  just 
wondering  how  we  should  manage. 
We  have  more  pupils  than  ever  before. 
While  Ellie  and  I  were  dependent  for 
support  on  our  teaching,  the  numbers 
fell  off.  Now  that  we  are  both — thanks 
to  your  brother — in  easy  circumstances, 
scholars  pour  in." 

"The  way  of  the  world,  Miss  Pem 
broke.  By  the  way,  since  we're  to 
teach  together,  hadn't  we  better  be  Ce 
lia  and  Harry  to  each  other?  You 
needn't  adopt  the  final  j,  if  you  don't 
like  it.  I've  been  thinking  myself  of 
spelling  it  with  an  ie,  like  Mattie,  so  as 
to  avoid  the  imputation  of  trenching  on 
the  masculine  prerogative." 

Celia  laughed  and  assented.  The 
two  took  to  each  other  from  the  first, 
and  Mrs.  Clifford  proved  an  excellent 
teacher. 

That  afternoon  Celia  had  a  music- 
lesson  to  give  at  Rosebank,  but  when 
she  rode  up  she  found  Leoline's  pony, 
Bucksfoot,  saddled  and  bridled  at  the 
door,  and  Leoline  herself  came  out. 

"  Papa  suggested  that  we  might  not 
have  many  more  such  splendid  after 
noons  before  winter  sets  in,  and  that 
we  had  better  make  the  most  of  it." 

"  I  believe  your  father  has  intuitions, 
Lela:  I  did  want  a  ride  —  that's  the 
truth." 


Leoline,  as  our  readers  may  have  ob 
served,  was  sometimes  troubled  with  a 
restless  desire  to  see  her  friends  happy. 
She  called  to  mind  her  father's  advice 
not  to  interfere  in  Celia's  love-matters, 
but  after  they  had  chatted  some  time 
about  other  things,  she  didn't  think  she 
was  disobeying  his  injunction  by  say 
ing,  somewhat  abruptly,  "  I  wonder, 
Celia  dear,  if  you'll  ever  marry  ?" 

"  I  do  not  think  I  ever  shall." 

"That's  what  I  was  afraid  of.  But 
you  won't  do  for  an  old  maid.  I'd  make 
a  much  better  one  ?" 

"Why?" 

"Well,  I  don't  exactly  know.  I'm 
not  a  girl  that's  nearly  so  apt  as  you 
to—" 

"To  take  a  fancy  to  a  handsome 
face  ?" 

"  I  wasn't  going  to  be  so  rude  as  to 
say  that,  though  maybe  it's  true  enough  : 
falling  in  love  isn't  much  in  my  way. 
You'd  make  such  a  good  wife,  Celia — 
far  better  than  hard-hearted  I.  Papa 
said  so  yesterday." 

"  He  said  I'd  make  a  better  wife  than 
you  ?" 

"  Not  exactly  :  he's  too  polite  a  papa 
for  that.  But  he  said  you'd  make  an 
admirable  wife,  and  of  course  he  knows 
I  wouldn't." 

"But  I'm  not  inclined  to  fall  in  love 
with  handsome  faces,  or  any  faces, 
now." 

Leoline  looked  grave  ;  then,  after  a 
pause,  "I'm  very  sorry  for  that,"  she 
said,  thoughtfully. 

"Sorry  that  I'm  getting  to  be  a  little 
more  like  you  ?  You  ought  to  be  glad. 
You  would  never  have  made  such  a 
mistake  as — " 

"Never  mind  about  that,  my  dear.  I 
once  heard  papa  say  it  was  one  of  the 
failings  that  '  lean  to  virtue's  side'  to 
think  better  of  others  than  they  deserve. 
I  like  you  all  the  better  for  it ;  but  I 
can't  be  glad  to  think  of  you  as  an  old 
maid." 

"Why  not?" 

"Because,  as  I  told  you  papa  said, 
you'd  make  somebody  such  a  good 
wife.  And  then  wife  and  mother — 
that's  woman's  vocation,  you  know." 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


265 


"But  if  you  don't  take  to  that  voca 
tion,  why  should  I  ?" 

"Oh,  I'm  different.  It's  a  pity  I  don't 
take  to  it,  but  how  can  I  help  that  ?" 

"  I  think  I  know  one  who  might  get 
you  out  of  that  difficulty,  if  you'd  let 
him  —  some  one  I  once  heard  you 
admire." 

"Naughty  creature!  but  you're  mis 
taken  :  that  wouldn't  work  :  I  told  you 
it  wouldn't,  from  the  first.  I'm  a  hope 
less  subject  in  that  line,  Celia,  but  you're 
not." 

"Suppose  nobody  wants  me." 

"  That's  not  a  supposable  case.  I  can 
suppose  that  you  don't  want  them,  and 
it  makes  me  sorry  to  think  of  it." 

"Lela  darling" — her  eyes  moistening 
a  little — "  let  me  tell  you  something.  I 
hope  you'll  never,  never  have  such  an 
experience  as  I've  had.  I  know  it  was 
sent  in  mercy.  I  feel — oh  so  thank 
fully  ! — all  I've  escaped.  I  hope  I  shall 
never  see  him  as  long  as  I  live ;  but 
yet,  for  all  that — " 

"  It's  I  that  have  been  a  naughty  girl, 
Celia.  Papa  told  me  not  to  meddle 
with  your  love-affairs,  and  I  didn't  in 
tend  to  do  it.  But  now  I've  gone  and 
made  you  think  of  things  that — that  it's 
not  the  least  worth  while — " 

"  It  is  not  your  doing,  Lela,  it's  mine. 
I  can't  help  thinking  about  them  :  some 
day  I  hope  I  shall  be  able  to  help  it." 

"And  some  day  I  hope  you'll  be 
somebody's  pet  and  make  him  chappy. 
And  till  that  time  comes  I'll  let  your 
heart  alone.  It  has  been  plagued 
enough  already,  without  my  blundering. 
Let's  have  a  good  gallop,  Celia." 


CHAPTER  XLVIII. 

AS    FAR   AS   THE   STORY   GOES. 

WINTER  passed.  Of  those  in  whom 
our  readers  take  interest  no  one  died — 
no  one  had  been  married.  Ethan  and 
Ellinor  were  established  at  Mrs.  Hart- 
land's.  If  Dr.  Rowe  had  visited  them, 
his  doubts  as  to  whether,  in  a  genial 
home,  blindness  was  always  a  misfor 
tune,  might  have  been  strengthened. 

Ellinor  had  intended  to  continue  her 


labors  at  the  Chiskauga  Institute,  but  a 
conversation  with  Dr.  Meyrac  modified 
her  plans. 

"  You  have  done  nobly,  so  far,  Mad 
ame  Hartland,"  he  said;  "but  a  mar 
ried  woman,  when  she  can  afford  it, 
should  husband  her  strength  and  her 
thoughts  for  home  necessities  and  home 
duties  :  the  next  generation  may  benefit 
thereby.  Permit  me  to  suggest  that  you 
gradually  withdraw  from  the  school, 
and  let  Madame  Clifford,  if  she  will, 
take  your  place." 

Much  to  Ethan's  satisfaction,  Ellinor 
followed  this  advice ;  only  retaining, 
for  the  present,  the  senior  classes  in 
English  and  French  literature,  and, 
when  the  weather  permitted,  continuing 
those  weekly  excursions  to  the  woods 
which  her  pupils  had  come  to  regard  as 
a  pleasure  and  a  privilege. 

Celia  spent  a  good  deal  of  her  time  at 
Rosebank;  sometimes  remaining  there, 
at  Leoline's  urgent  invitation,  for  the 
night.  She  felt  the  less  scruple  in  so 
doing  because  her  aunt  had  now  a 
daughter  as  well  as  a  son  to  gladden 
her  fireside,  and  seemed  contented  and 
happy  beyond  what  her  niece  had  ever 
believed  she  could  be.  Those  fancies 
about  Sydenham,  of  which  Meyrac 
(though  of  course  he  could  not  have 
deciphered  them)  had  detected  the  un 
wholesome  tendency,  were  gradually 
fading  out :  a  grandchild  or  two,  Celia 
felt  convinced,  would  dissipate  them 
altogether.  Now  and  then  the  widow 
took  herself  to  task — for  Alice  was  given 
to  self-accusation — because  she  could 
not  help  feeling  the  death  of  her  hus 
band  to  be  a  welcome  relief.  He  was 
so  good  a  man,  she  thought,  and  she, 
as  his  relict,  ought  to  be  mourning  his 
loss.  He  had  been  just,  upright,  a 
faithful  provider,  a  man  who  intended, 
no  doubt,  to  make  his  wife  comfortable  ; 
but  good?  —  how  about  that  simple, 
homely  virtue  ?  Musselmen  buy  birds 
in  the  market  and  set  them  free,  under 
the  beautiful  superstition  that  the  souls 
of  these  liberated  captives  will  one  day 
bear  witness  to  their  kindness  before 
the  throne  of  God  ;  but  if  Hartland  had 
lived  in  Mecca,  he  would  have  regarded 


266 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


such  ransom  as  money  thrown  away. 
Like  the  Pharisees  in  Jesus'  day,  he  had 
failed  to  "learn  what  that  meaneth  :  '  I 
will  have  mercy  and  not  sacrifice.'  " 
Can  there  be  goodness  without  mercy  ? 
Is  a  domestic  martinet  a  good  man  ? 
Harshness,  exaction  of  implicit  obedi 
ence,  severity  in  household  rule — are 
these  the  qualities  that  fit  a  human  soul 
for  a  high  place  in  another  world,  where 
love  is  supreme  ?  If  in  that  world  we 
"know  even  as  we  are  known,"  Thomas 
Hirtland  had  already  found  out  that 
the  widowed  partner  he  had  left  behind 
ought  to  rejoice,  not  to  lament,  that 
Death  had  freed  her  from  tyranny. 

Celia  was  a  frequent  visitor  also, 
during  the  early  part  of  winter,  at  Mrs. 
Creighton's.  Harriet  Clifford  and  she 
had  become  fast  friends,  and  she  in 
tended  her  visits  to  the  cottage  on  the 
lake  in  pure  kindness.  When  she  re 
fused  Creighton  she  earnestly  felt  that 
she  valued  no  one  more  highly  as  a 
friend.  Besides,  she  was  deeply  grate 
ful  to  him  for  all  he  had  done  for  her 
sister  and  herself;  and,  though  she  had 
resolved  never  to  marry  him,  yet  on 
every  account  she  wished,  as  much  as 
possible,  to  take  off  the  edge  of  her  re 
fusal,  and  to  show  him  that  she  liked 
his  company.  Must  she  make  a  stranger 
of  an  excellent  and  agreeable  man  mere 
ly  because  she  could  not  give  him  her 
hand  ? 

All  this  was  very  well  intended,  and 
indeed  generous,  on  Celia's  part,  yet  I 
don't  think  it  was  very  wise.  It  is  a 
pretty  theory  enough  that  a  young  girl, 
free  in  every  respect  but  one — namely, 
that  she  has  no  heart  to  give  in  mar 
riage — should  cultivate  the  friendship 
of  a  man  a  few  years  older  than  herself, 
and  deeply  in  love  with  her,  after  she 
had  refused  to  be  his  wife.  Yet  in  prac 
tice,  somehow,  it  doesn't  work.  Unless 
she  thinks  that  by  and  by  she  may 
change  her  mind — when  Celia  refused 
Creighton  she  had  no  such  idea — she 
may  be  doing  a  cruel  thing. 

That  was  the  last  thing  the  girl 
dreamed  of  doing  or  meant  to  do.  She 
saw  that  when  she  entered  Mrs.  Creigh 
ton's  parlor  the  son's  eyes  lighted  up. 


The  evenings  were  pleasant  to  her: 
they  seemed  even  more  pleasant  to  him, 
and  Celia  liked  to  give  pleasure*.  Then 
they  talked  of  Europe,  of  London  and 
its  wonders,  of  Paris  and  its  attractions, 
of  Eliot's  student-life  in  Gottingen,  of  a 
visit  he  had  paid  to  Rome  and  to  Na 
ples.  Sometimes  they  branched  off  to 
other  subjects,  literary,  artistic,  scien 
tific.  Creighton  was  thoroughly  well 
read,  of  sprightly  intellect  and  compre 
hensive  mind.  He  had  been  a  shrewd 
observer  and  he  was  an  excellent  talker : 
Celia  liked  to  listen  to  him.  Surely 
there  was  no  harm  in  all  that — great 
good,  indeed. 

And  then  it  was  not  as  if  he  could 
mistake  her  motive.  Forewarned,  fore 
armed.  She  had  told  him  in  plain 
terms  that  she  wished  his  friendship, 
and  that  she  did  not  wish,  because  she 
could  not  return,  his  love.  It  was  quite 
safe.  There  was  no  inkling  of  flirtation 
about  it.  Why  couldn't  he  have  her 
for  a  friend  and  some  one  else  for  a 
wife  ? — Leoline,  perhaps  :  she  wished 
he  would. 

Ah,  Celia!  I  think  you  couldn't  have 
helped  knowing  that  you  were  not  a  dis 
agreeable  person.  And  you  surely 
didn't  need  to  be  told  that  Creighton 
thought  you  particularly  attractive. 
These  long  talks  the  poor  fellow  had 
with  you  about  France  and  Germany 
and  Italy — were  they  just  the  likely 
thing,  do  you  think,  to  turn  his  thoughts 
to  Leoline  as  a  wife  ?  You  didn't  cal 
culate  all  that  matter  well. 

One  good  came  of  it,  however.  Creigh 
ton  threw  himself,  heart  and  soul,  into 
his  profession.  lie  worked  up  his  law 
cases  with  untiring  industry.  One  or 
two  important  ones  were  thrown  into  his 
hands.  He  electrified  the  court  and  his 
brethren  of  the  profession  by  several 
brilliant  efforts,  resulting  in  unlooked- 
for  success.  How  much  midnight  oil 
he  burned — for  Chiskauga  had  no  gas — 
I  am  not  able  to  say ;  but  he  grew  ner 
vous-looking  and  pale.  Gradually  he 
attracted  to  himself  the  best  half  of 
Cranstoun's  practice.  He  was  spoken 
of  as  a  rising  man. 

An    unexpected    event    still    further 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


267 


brightened  his  business  prospects.  Amos 
Cranstoun,  disappointed  on  every  side, 
foiled  alike  in  his  plot  against  Celia  and 
in  his  intrigues  against  the  Institute,  see 
ing  a  profitable  practice  melt  from  him 
day  by  day,  sold  out  his  Chiskauga  pos 
sessions  in  disgust  and  emigrated  to 
Texas. 

He  persuaded  Cassiday  to  join  him. 
Ever  since  Ellen  Tyler's  death  the  latter 
had  been  restless  and  unsettled.  Once 
or  twice  he  had  relapsed  into  his  old 
habits  of  intemperance ;  and  Ethan, 
highly  though  he  prized  him  as  groom, 
had  told  him  that  the  next  time  it  hap 
pened  he  should  be  dismissed.  Cas 
siday  preferred,  as  others  in  higher 
places  and  similar  circumstances  have 
done,  to  resign  his  office. 

"What  did  I  tell  ye,  Teddy?"  said 
Norah  to  her  husband  when  she  heard 
of  their  departure.  "  Didn't  it  answer 
best  to  let  the  spalpeen  go  ?" 

"But  God  hasn't  drownded  him,  as 
ye  thought  He  would." 

"An1  hasn't  He  sint  him  off  on  wan 
o'  them  steamboats  down  the  Missis 
sippi,  an'  isn't  that  the  next  thing  to  it  ?" 

The  same  evening  Norah  had  a  let 
ter,  out  of  which,  when  she  opened  it, 
dropped  a  hundred-dollar  note.  When 
she  had  recovered  from  her  amazement 
she  and  Terence  read  : 

"MISTRESS  NORAH  O'REILLY: 

"  It  was  very  good  in  you  to  nurse 
Miss  Ellen  Tyler  when  she  lay  sick. 
She  and  the  old  man  were  both  very 
kind  to  me.  I  don't  care  about  livin' 
here,  now  she's  gone.  I  planted  some 
flowers  on  her  grave,  and  I  want  you 
to  keep  them  in  order  and  water  them, 
and  to  set  out  some  more  when  they're 
gone.  The  note  that's  in  this  letter  will 
help  pay  for  your  trouble.  I'll  send  you 
seventy  dollars  more  from  Texas  just  as 
soon  as  I  can  spare  it.  B.  C." 

Terence  was  the  first  who  spoke  :  "  Ef 
God  gets  him  drownded  on  the  way 
down,  ye'll  lose  yer  seventy  dollars, 
Norah." 

His  wife  did  not  answer:  she  was 
fairly  crying.  "God  forgi"  me!"  she 
sobbed  out  at  last. 


"An'  is  it  cryin'  ye  are,  acushla  ?  He 
was  niver  worth  it.  But  I  expec'  it's  a 
true  sayin'  for  all,  that  the  Divil  isn't  not 
half  as  black  as  he's  painted.  I'm  mighty 
glad  I  didn't  go  after  the  fellow  wi'  a 
shillalah,  any  how." 

One  pleasant  day  early  in  March, 
Ellinor  being  somewhat  indisposed,  Ce 
lia  had  taken  her  place  in  the  weekly 
excursion  to  the  forest.  On  the  way 
they  met  Leoline  and  Creighton  on 
horseback.  She  mentioned  this  to  Har 
riet  Clifford  on  her  return. 

"Leoline  is  a  charming  girl,"  said 
Harriet — "bright,  outspoken,  and  a 
young  person  of  much  character,  who 
improves  greatly  on  acquaintance.  I 
like  her.  Mamma  told  me  of  her '  speak 
ing  out  in  meeting.'  There  isn't  one 
girl  in  a  hundred  would  have  had  cour 
age  to  do  it." 

This  set  Celia  a-thinking.  For  sev 
eral  weeks  past  she  had  been  visited 
with  qualms  about  the  discretion  of  her 
visits  to  the  lake  cottage,  and  she  had 
made  these  less  frequent,  usually  timing 
them  when  she  thought  Creighton  was 
likely  to  be  absent.  When  he  visited 
her,  which  might  be  once  a  week  on 
the  average,  the  symptoms  made  her 
uneasy:  he  was  getting  thinner,  and 
she  noticed  a  restless,  nervous,  unset 
tled  look  that  was  anything  but  habitual 
to  him. 

"  You  work  too  hard,"  she  said  to  him 
one  day. 

"  Hard  work  is  wholesome  for  me," 
was  the  reply,  but  she  did  not  like  the 
bitter  smile  with  which  he  said  it. 

After  the  encounter  above  mentioned, 
and  Harriet's  comments  in  connection 
with  it,  Celia  scarcely  visited  the  Creigh- 
tons  for  six  or  eight  weeks.  Then  con 
science  upbraided  her  for  treating  good 
friends  so  coldly.  With  all  her  love  for 
her  sister,  she  missed  their  society,  think 
ing  of  them  often  and  uneasily.  She  was 
not  satisfied  with  herself. 

"You  are  working  too  hard,  Celia 
dear,"  Harriet  said  to  her  one  day  after 
school  was  over. 

Celia  had  it  on  the  tip  of  her  tongue 
to  say  that  hard  work  was  good  for  her, 


268 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


but  she  remembered  the  spiritless  smile 
with  which  Creighton  had  made  the 
same  reply,  and  merely  said,  "Not 
harder  than  you,  Harriet :  one  feels 
languid  the  first  warm  days  in  spring. 
I'll  come  and  have  some  music  with 
you  to-night :  that  will  brighten  me  up." 

She  came.  In  the  course  of  the  even 
ing  Mrs.  Creighton  begged  for  the  bal 
lad,  "When  stars  are  in  the  quiet  sky." 
Celia  had  sung  it  once  or  twice  in  the 
early  days  of  their  acquaintance  ;  and 
now,  for  the  first  time,  the  request  em 
barrassed  her.  With  self-chidings  for 
being  so  silly,  she  sat  down  to  the  piano 
at  once.  There  was  some  uncertainty 
in  her  voice  at  first,  but  Mrs.  Creighton 
thought  and  said  that  she  outdid  her 
self.  Creighton  said  nothing,  and  his 
conversation,  that  evening,  was  less  in 
teresting  than  usual.  Celia  was  grave 
and  evidently  out  of  spirits,  though  she 
did  her  best  to  conceal  it.  After  a  time 
Ethan  dropped  in,  and  she  went  home 
with  him. 

Next  day,  on  her  return  from  school, 
Celia  found  a  letter  on  her  table.  She 
knew  the  handwriting,  and  locked  her 
door  before  she  opened  the  suspicious- 
looking  missive.  Her  color  came  and 
went  as  she  read : 

"To  Miss  CELIA  PEMBROKE: 

"  I  write  because  I  would  not  have  a 
hasty  answer,  and  because  I  want  to 
say  what  I  have  to  say,  calmly. 

"It  can't  go  on,  Miss  Pembroke.  As 
God  is  my  witness,  I  have  done  my  best. 
A  hundred  times  I've  taken  myself  to 
task.  Heaven  help  me !  I  think  I've 
done  little  else  (except  what  I've  been 
driven  to)  than  take  myself  to  task  all 
this  last  winter.  You  can  say  nothing 
to  me  in  the  way  of  reproach  that  I 
have  not  said  to  myself.  I  know  I 
ought  to  be  able  to  go  on  with  my  work 
in  peace,  but  I  cannot :  the  doubts,  the 
uncertainties  of  my  position  thrust  them 
selves  into  my  office-hours.  I  ought  to 
submit  to  the  inevitable — and  when  I 
know  it  is  the  inevitable  I  suppose  I 
shall  learn  to  submit  to  it — but  I  need 
not  submit  to  the  tortures  of  suspense  : 
they  darken  my  life. 


"  I  know  that  all  you  said  about  wish 
ing  me  for  a  friend,  and  then  all  your 
visits  to  mother's  house,  were  as  kindly 
meant  as  they  could  be.  I  enjoyed 
your  visits  far  too  much ;  and  when  you 
discontinued  them  lately  I  felt  miser 
able.  But  don't  you  see  that  there  must 
be  an  end  of  this  ?  I  would  be  an  un 
grateful  wretch  if  I  did  not  value  your 
friendship  :  priceless  it  would  be  to  me 
if  I  cared  for  you  less.  But,  Celia  (let 
me  speak  to  you  this  once — Eliot  to 
Celia),  even  if  I  could  keep  on  working 
near  you,  it  would  never  do  for  me  to 
stay  here  and  be  only  your  friend.  If 
yoiixknew  just  how  I  feel  toward  you — 
how  day  by  day  and  week  by  week  the 
yearning  grows — you  would  not  wish 
me  to  stay  on  such  condition.  If  I  did, 
and  you  married  here,  how  would  you 
like,  each  time  you  saw  me,  to  feel  that 
I  loved  you  as  no  man  ought  to  love 
another's  wife  ?  Do  you  think  I  would 
ever  subject  you  to  such  an  indignity  ? 
That's  one  of  the  things  I  can  help — 
and  I  will. 

"  Don't  vex  yourself  about  it  if  I  have 
to  go.  It's  not  your  fault  that  I  had  to 
love  you.  It  may  be  my  fault,  but  it  is 
certainly  not  yours,  if  you  have  no  heart 
to  give  in  return  for  mine. 

"Have  you  none  to  give  ?  I  thought 
I  could  leave  Chiskauga  with  the  an 
swer  I  had  from  you  six  months  ago 
about  that.  But  I  felt  last  night— no 
matter  why — that  I  couldn't  go  without 
asking — not  the  same  question  I  asked 
then — not  whether  you  would  be  my 
wife  now — but  only,  just  as  I  have  put 
it,  whether  you  have  a  heart  to  give 
that  might,  some  day,  when  past  re 
grets  shall  have  faded,  possibly  turn  to 
me. 

"  I  cannot  go  without  trying  the  sole 
chance  that  remains.  But  if  you  have 
to  dismiss  me,  I  ask  only  four  words  : 
'  There  is  no  hope*  Absolve  me,  I  en 
treat,  from  the  impertinence  of  desiring 
to  know  why  there  is  none.  I  want  the 
bare  fact — that  which  regards  my  own 
fate  only,  not  any  one  else's. 

"  If  it  must  be,  we  shall  leave  Chis 
kauga  in  three  or  four  weeks.  And  if 
I  must  hear,  some  day,  of  your  marry- 


BEYOND   THE  BREAKERS. 


269 


ing  a  man  worthier  and  happier  than  I 
shall  ever  be,  oh  be  sure,  Celia — be 
sure — that  your  sister  herself  will  have 
no  good  wishes  for  your  welfare,  heartier, 
warmer,  than  mine. 

"ELIOT  CREIGHTON. 
"CHISKAUGA,  May  2,  1857. 

"P.  S.  My  present  income  from  my 
profession,  if  you  care  anything  about 
knowing,  somewhat  exceeds  two  thou 
sand  a  year." 

Abrupt  enough  :  not  much  of  a  love- 
letter — not  a  fine  sentence  or  impas 
sioned  period  in  it.  Yet  it  awoke  to 
consciousness  some  fruitful  thoughts 
that  had  been  lying,  half  dormant,  in 
the  girl's  heart.  It  was  one  of  Celia's 
idiosyncrasies  that  odd  scraps  of  poetry, 
floating  like  driftwood  on  the  Missis 
sippi,  were  apt  to  lodge  and  accumulate 
in  the  nooks  and  corners  of  her  brain  ; 
now  sinking  out  of  memory,  anon  com 
ing  to  the  surface  when  some  strong  in 
fluence,  as  just  now,  stirred  the  depths. 
The  scrap  which  emerged  on  the  pres 
ent  occasion  was  a  stray  stanza,  trans 
lated  from  some  German  sonnet  or 
other,  the  rest  of  which  had  been  swept 
down  the  Lethean  stream.  The  waif 
had  haunted  her  several  times,  espe 
cially  during  the  latter  part  of  the 
winter : 

"  '  Now  tell  me  how  Love  cometh?' 

'  It  comes  unsought,  unsent.' 
'And  tell  me  how  Love  goeth?' 
'  That  was  not  Love  that  went.'  " 

Had  that  young  dream  of  hers  been  of 
something  other  than  love  ?  Was  it 
but  a  fancy,  built  on  the  shifting  sands 
of  Impulse,  which,  when  the  winds  rose 
and  the  waters  beat  against  it,  ought  to 
be  overthrown  ? 

The  dream  was  fading  away  —  no 
mistake  as  to  that.  Nor  did  it  seem 
less  certain  to  the  girl's  awakened  sense 
that  the  fancy  had  never  been  founded 
on  esteem.  Could  she  ever  have  re 
spected  as  husband  a  youth  idle  of  habit, 
infirm  of  purpose,  selfish  to  the  mother 
who  loved  and  indulged  him  ?  And 
then,  if  that  terrible  tragedy  had  hap 
pened  after  their  marriage,  could  she 
have  lived,  as  wife,  with  Ellen's  betray 


er  ?  She  shrank  appalled  from  the 
thought. 

If  Love,  once  the  heart's  inmate,  can 
not  go,  this  had  been  but  its  worthless 
similitude.  The  sooner  the  thing  was 
out  of  her  sight — ten  feet  underground 
— the  better. 

In  after  time — because  the  heart,  if  it 
be  genial,  waxes  charitable  with  years 
— there  was  a  certain  reaction  :  then 
news  of  his  well-being  came  to  be  grate 
ful  ;  but  not  now.  She  wished  no  news 
about  him :  she  was  sure  of  that  after 
she  had  read  Creighton's  letter. 

That  night  she  lay  awake  she  knew 
not  how  long.  Next  day  her  school- 
hours  were  invaded,  as  Creighton's  of 
fice-hours  had  been,  by  vagrant  doubts. 
In  the  afternoon,  after  giving  Leoline 
her  music-lesson,  she  had  a  long,  sol 
itary  gallop  in  the  woods :  then  she 
slackened  rein  and  let  Bess  walk  lazily 
back.  By  the  time  she  reached  home 
she  had  decided  that  she  must  have  a 
talk  with  Creighton.  Ere  she  went  to 
rest  she  wrote  and  burned  up  several 
notes.  Next  morning,  before  break 
fast,  she  indited  and  sent  to  one  whose 
heart  was  beginning  to  wax  sick  with 
"hope  deferred,"  the  following: 

"To  ELIOT  CREIGHTON,  ESQ.  : 

"  I  have  taken  time,  as  you  wished, 
to  think  over  your  letter,  and  I  am  not 
willing  to  dismiss  you,  as  you  phrase  it, 
with  four  words.  Can  you  spare  time 
to  ride  out  this  fine  morning  ? 

"CELIA  PEMBROKE. 
"Saturday" 

Almost  before  breakfast  was  over 
Creighton's  horse  was  at  the  door. 
While  they  traversed  the  village  little 
passed  between  them.  As  they  rode  by 
Harper's  modest  dwelling,  Celia  said, 
"  I'm  sorry  you  missed  that  sermon  after 
Ellen's  death." 

"Good  Mr.  Harper  wrote  it  out  at  my 
suggestion ;  and  I  have  not  read  so 
powerful  an  appeal  for  many  a  day. 
Your  sex  is  often  adored,  but  seldom 
fairly  treated.  Flattery,  Courtesy,  In 
dulgence  are  gay  courtiers,  but  grave, 
sober-eyed  Justice  is  worth  them  all." 

Celia  had  concluded,  the  day  before, 


270 


BEYOND    THE   BREAKERS. 


that  it  was  good  for  a  wife  to  be  proud 
of  her  husband.  The  thought  came  to 
her  again. 

"Which  road  do  you  prefer  ?"  Creigh- 
ton  asked. 

"  Shall  we  ride  to  Grangula's  Mount  ?" 
Then,  with  a  smile,  she  added,  "  I  have 
pleasant  associations  with  it." 

Creighton  ought,  in  common  civility, 
to  have  expressed  his  assent,  but  he  did 
not.  Perhaps,  too,  it  was  his  part  to 
allude  the  first  to  the  letter  he  had  writ 
ten,  but  that  also  he  neglected.  He 
spoke,  instead,  of  Ellinor,  saying  how 
much  pleasure  it  gave  him  to  see  her  so 
bright  and  contented.  "  It  was  but  the 
other  day,"  he  added,  "your  sister  said 
to  me  that  she  had  never  known  what 
happiness  was  till  she  became  blind." 

"A  sentiment  I  met  with  in  Madame 
Roland's  autobiography  may  explain 
that,  I  think." 

"And  the  sentiment  was — ?" 

"  That  happiness  depends  not  so  much 
on  events  as  on  the  affections." 

"  It  is  one  of  the  foundation-truths  of 
the  world.  Every  year  stamps  it  more 
and  more  on  one's  heart." 

"On  some  hearts." 

They  were  getting  didactic.  Conver 
sation  flagged  till,  arrived  at  the  Mount, 
Creighton,  to  use  the  language  of  the 
country,  had  "  hitched  their  horses  to  a 
swinging  limb"  and  they  had  seated 
themselves  in  the  shade. 

"Mr.  Creighton,"  Celia  then  said,  her 
voice  somewhat  unsteady,  "  I  am  per 
fectly  sure  that  if  I  married  a  worthy 
man,  no  one  would  congratulate  me 
more  sincerely  than  you.  But  when 
you  wrote  that  were  you  thinking  of  any 
one  in  particular?" 

The  usually  self-possessed  Creighton 
reddened  with  embarrassment,  and  Ce 
lia,  despite  the  guard  she  thought  she 
had  set  on  that  silly  habit  of  hers,  blush 
ed  over  face  and  neck. 

"I  pained  you,  Miss  Pembroke,"  he 
broke  forth  when  he  saw  her  emotion  : 
"I  had  no  right — " 

"  I  think  you  had  a  right,"  she  tried 
to  say  quietly.  "  I  wished  to  tell  you — " 
There  she  stopped,  and,  after  a  mo 
ment's  hesitation,  abruptly  and  very 


irrelevantly,  it  seemed,  she  added : 
"Harriet  tells  me  you've  been  reading 
Sir  Charles  Grandison  lately." 

He  could  not  imagine  what  this  was 
leading  to,  but  he  answered,  instinctive 
ly,  "Yes." 

"  Have  you  come  to  the  episode  about 
Sir  Charles'  ward  ?" 

"Emily  Jervois  ?"  Then  it  flashed 
on  him  —  her  hopeless  love  for  her 
guardian ! 

"  Her  case  is  not  mine.  I  never  was 
in  love" — she  said  it  with  a  nervous  sort 
of  smile — "I  never  was  in  love  with 
either  of  my  guardians." 

"Thank  God!"  He  did  not  intend 
to  say  it  aloud.  The  tone  of  his  voice 
went  to  Celia's  heart :  it  revealed  to  her 
all  he  had  been  suffering,  and  she  add 
ed,  very  earnestly, 

"  I  have  been  weak  and  foolish,  Mr. 
Creighton,  but  I  solemnly  assure  you 
that  I  never  loved  Mr.  Sydenham  ex 
cept  as  his  daughter  might ;  and  he,  as 
surely,  never  dreamed  of  me  as  a  wife. 
When  I  spoke  six  months  ago  of  a 
divided  heart — " 

"  It  was  Mowbray  !" 

"It  couldn't  have  been  what  we  ought 
to  call  love,  yet  it  would  come  back  for 
months  in  spite  of  pride,  in  spite  of 
reason.  Could  I  say  yes  to  you  while  it 
haunted  me  ?" 

"And  now,  Celia,  now?" 

"Evelyn  Mowbray  would  be  less  dead 
to  me  if  he  were  in  his  grave." 

It  was  all  told.  And  then  Celia  Pem 
broke  found  out,  for. the  first  time  in  her 
life,  what  Love's  words  are  like.  All  that 
Creighton  had  garnered  and  guarded  in 
his  heart  for  long  months,  that  happy 
heart  poured  out  now — a  revelation  of 
which  she  had  never  even  dreamed. 
On  the  grass  at  her  feet,  both  her  hands 
in  his,  those  wonderful  gray  eyes  on 
hers,  she  felt  that  this  was  her  first  love. 
It  quenched  all  lingering  recollections 
of  that  other  feeble  counterfeit,  as  the 
sun  puts  out  the  faintest  star.  She  had 
had  visions,  as  girlhood  will,  of  a  fair 
world,  but  this  that  was  opening  upon 
her  outshone  her  brightest  dreams. 
Grangula's  Mount  was  hallowed  in  her 
memory  for  evermore. 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


271 


When  the  first  wild  waves  of  emotion 
had  subsided,  and  on  the  long  swell  of 
satisfied  affection  that  succeeded  some 
thing  like  conversation  was  possible, 
Creighton  said:  "Celia  darling,  what 
helped  you  to  find  out,  at  last,  how  it 
stood  in  that  dear  heart  of  yours  ?" 

"There  was  a  short  sentence  in  your 
letter  about  leaving  us  in  three  or  four 
weeks." 

"  I  hated  to  write  that.  It  seemed  so 
like  an  appeal  to  your  pity." 

"  Did  it  ?  Perhaps  we  might  both  have 
been  much  to  be  pitied  if  you  had  gone : 
at  all  events,  I  discovered  when  that 
alternative  came  suddenly  before  me, 
that  /  should  be.  I  wanted  to  know  if 
I  really,  really  loved  you  ;  and  when  I 
found  out  that  I  couldn't  let  you  go — " 

A  sudden  interruption  prevented  the 
conclusion  of  the  sentence ;  not  that 
any  impertinent  intruders  showed  them 
selves  :  it  would  have  been  quite  awk 
ward  if  they  had. 

When  Celia  recovered  herself— all  to 
the  bright  bloom  that  would  linger — 
she  said : 

"Now  it  is  my  turn,  Eliot — " 

"Is  it?" 

"Don't  be  foolish — my  turn  to  ask 
questions." 

"Ah!" 

"The  other  evening,  when  you  felt 
that  you  couldn't  go  without  interrogat 
ing  your  fate — '  no  matter  why '  you 
wrote  me — " 

"You  want  to  know  about  the  why?" 

"Yes." 

"  Yesterday  I  should  have  been 
ashamed  to  tell  you.  If  there's  one 
creature  I  despise  more  than  another, 
it's  a  man  who  presumes  on  a  woman's 
favor.  But  that  evening  when  you  sung 
to  us,  it  was  like  Nourmahal's  song  in 
Lalla  "Rookh." 

"  The  air  with  the  '  deep  magic  *  in  it 
that  the  dark  sorceress  taught  her? 
You  must  have  a  powerful  imagina 
tion." 

"  I  wonder  who  taught  you  such  an 
expression  of  that  exquisite  fancy  of 
Bulwer's.  There  was  sorcery  in  it, 
I'm  certain.  I  never  felt  its  beauty  be 
fore.  Did  you  think  of  me,  Celia  ? — 


did  you  care  for  me  a  little  while  you 
were  singing?" 

"Yes." 

"  I  thought  so.  It  was  the  first  time  I 
had  thought  it." 

"You  did  not  use  to  care  for  me." 

"When?" 

"When  you  first  came  here." 

"  I  was  drawn  to  you  the  very  first 
evening  we  sang  together.  But  you 
were  an  heiress  then,  and  I  was  a  poor, 
briefless  lawyer.  You  were  engaged, 
too,  and  I  had  no  business  to  care  for 
you  as  I  did.  It  provoked  me." 

"  I  thought  there  was  something  wrong 
— that  I  had  displeased,  disgusted  you, 
perhaps — 

"I  was  disgusted,  but  it  was  with  my 
self  for  my  own  folly  :  that  was  all." 

"  It  seems  to  me  so  strange  now  that 
there  ever  was  a  time — 

"The  future,  Celia  ! — the  bright,  hap 
py  future  !  Let  the  past  go." 

"  I  thought  my  fate  a  cruel  one.  How 
little  I  knew  about  it !" 

I  don't  believe  either  of  them  ever 
knew  how  long  they  sat  there  under 
that  magnificent  elm.  In  after  years 
they  made  an  annual  pic-nic  pilgrimage 
to  the  spot  on  a  certain  anniversary. 

As  they  mounted  their  horses  at  last 
and  turned  toward  home,  Creighton 
asked  :  "  Celia,  what  made  you  say  you 
had  pleasant  associations  with  Gran- 
gula's  Mount  ?" 

f  Because  it  was  here  I  first  got  an 
idea  what  sort  of  man  Eliot  Creighton 
was.  By  the  way,  saucy  Leoline,  who 
had  been  admiring  you  that  day,  told 
me,  as  we  were  riding  home,  that  you 
would  never  fancy  her,  but  that  I  was 
just  the  sort  of  person  you  would  be 
sure  to  fall  in  love  with." 

"  Sagacious  girl !" 

"  I  wish  she  could  find  somebody 
worthy  of  her — " 

"No  hurry,  Celia.  Far  better  she 
should  enjoy  in  that  pleasant  house  of 
her  father's  a  few  years  of  beautiful 
girlhood,  fancy  free." 

"She's  only  three  years  younger  than 
I." 

"But  three  years  of  innocent  gladness, 
three  years  to  lay  in  a  stock  of  strength 


272 


BEYOND    THE  BREAKERS. 


and  health  and  spirit  and  experience 
against  the  realities  of  life  !  And  then 
I  think  you're  more  than  three  years 
older  than  Miss  Sydenham.  You've 
crowded  two  or  three  years  into  the  last 
twelvemonth." 

"  I  feel  as  if  I  had.  I  think  I  must 
be  about  twenty-five — only  two  years 
younger  than  you.  Lela  seems  to  me  a 
mere  girl  in  comparison,  but  such  a 
dear,  brave,  spirited  darling." 

"  I  like  her  so  much," 

"Hadn't  you  a  nice  time  with  her  that 
day  we  met  you  in  the  woods,  lover- 
like,  on  horseback  together?" 

"You  can't  make  me  believe  you  were 
jealous." 

"I  think  it  rather  opened  my  eyes. 
But  any  one  might  love  Lela.  Don't 
you  wish,  as  somebody  has  it,  that  you 
had  '  another  heart  to  shrine  her  in'  ?" 

'  One  God  and  one  heart,  Celia. 
That's  Nature's  creed  and  Love's." 

"Forgive  me,  Eliot." 

"  For  an  innocent  pleasantry  ?  Soame 
Jenyns  believed  that  part  of  our  happi 
ness  in  heaven  would  spring  from  an 
exquisite  perception  of  the  mirthful.  I 
dare  say  he's  right." 

"Shall  you  find  excuse  for  every  fool 
ish  thing  I  say  or  do  ?" 

"  If  anything  you  ever  say  or  do  needs 
excuse — yes." 

"Now  I  think  of  it,  there's  one  thing 
I  did  that  was  rather  shocking." 

"  Pray,  what  was  that  ?"  • 

"  I  pretty  much  asked  you  to  have 
me — and  this  is  not  leap  year." 

"  You  asked  me  to  have  you  ?" 

"Didn't  I  ?  Your  modest  prayer  was 
—don't  you  remember? — not  by  any 
means  that  I  should  agree  to  be"  — 
she  blushed  a  little— "to  be  Mrs.  Eliot 
Creighton,  but  only  that  I  should  be  so 
good  as  to  let  you  know  whether  I  had 
a  heart  to  give  which,  some  day  or 
other — in  five  or  six  years,  I  suppose — 
that  would  be  a  reasonable  time  for  the 
fading  of  past  regrets — might  possibly 
turn  to  the  humble  suitor  who  would 
wait  just  as  long  as  my  ladyship  pleased. 
And  now,  as  the  children  say,  I've  gone 
and  done  it — " 

"That's    shocking,    is   it?      Don't    I 


know  why  you  did  it?  From  pity.  You 
saw  I  was  getting  ghostly— quite  lacka 
daisical  and  hatchet-faced." 

"You  mustn't  joke  about  that.  You 
are  looking  pale  and  thin,  and  it's  my 
fault :  I  knew  it  was  that  day  you  told 
me  hard  work  was  wholesome  for  you. 
I've  repented  of  that.  The  bad  child 
won't  do  so  any  more." 

But  lovers'  talk,  unmatched  in  its 
proper  place,  will  seldom  bear  retailing. 

The  sixteenth  of  June  was  their  wed 
ding-day.  Mr.  Harper  was  asked  to 
officiate  :  a  great  pleasure  it  was  to  the 
kind  old  man,  for  both  Celia  and  Creigh 
ton  were  favorites  of  his :  he  thought  he 
had  half  persuaded  the  latter  to  study 
Hebrew. 

The  morning  before  the  wedding 
Celia.  found,  on  her  toilet-table,  a  deed 
to  herself  of  the  Hartland  dwelling- 
house  and  its  appurtenances,  signed  by 
her  aunt  and  cousin — a  very  pretty  mar 
riage-gift  :  plenty  of  room  for  her  new 
mother  and  sister-in-law — and  then  Bess 
would  remain  in  her  old  stall.  She  had 
scarcely  recovered  from  her  surprise 
when,  descending  to  the  parlor,  she 
espied,  standing  there,  a  semi-grand 
Steinway,  with  a  kind  note  from  Syden 
ham  lying  on  it.  She  tried  the  tone 
and  could  not  restrain  an  exclamation 
of  delight. 

"When  you  return  from  your  wed 
ding-trip  you  will  find  me  at  Ethan's," 
her  aunt  said  to  her  during  breakfast. 

For  Ethan  had  found  out  that  his 
wife  and  her  mother-in-law  were  unwill 
ing  to  be  separated.  And  like  a  good 
fellow,  as  he  was,  he  had  modified  his 
building  plan,  interposing  between  the 
ground  floor  and  the  French  attic  a 
second  story. 

Mrs.  Wolfgang  was  disgusted  with 
the  arrangement,  declined  to  visit  her 
sister-in-law,  and  changed  her  residence 
to  Mount  Sharon  :  report  said,  because 
she  had  matrimonial  designs  on  a  rich 
old  bachelor,  clerk  of  the  court  there. 
I  have  not  heard  that  she  succeeded. 
If  he  finally  escape  the  snare,  the  hus 
band-market  of  California  is  still  open  ; 
and  Leoline  may  some  day  be  gratified 


BEYOND    THE   BREAKERS. 


273 


by  the  intelligence  that  the  Rocky 
Mountains  are  interposed  between  her 
self  and  the  object  of  her  special  aver 
sion.  I  don't  think  the  widow  will  go 
to  Texas,  as  she  once  thought  of  doing; 
for  by  the  last  accounts  from  thence 
the  Chiskauga  public  learned  that  Cran- 
stoun  had  lost  his  property  and  Cassi- 
day  his  life  in  the  Great  War.  Some 
time,  however,  before  the  Mississippi 
was  closed  by  Confederate  batteries,  a 
letter  reached  Norah,  postmarked  Aus 
tin,  Texas  :  it  contained  seventy  dollars, 
but  not  a  word  of  explanation. 

If  any  reader  of  ours,  traveling  in 
Western  Ohio,  should  happen,  some 
summer  day,  to  look  in  upon  Chis 
kauga,  and  if,  as  he  ought,  he  visit  its 
picturesque  cemetery,  entering  it  by  the 
eastern  gateway,  he  will  find,  on  the  left 
as  he  passes  up,  a  neatly-fenced  burial- 
spot,  marked  by  a  white  marble  slab 
bearing  a  name  not  unfamiliar  to  him  ; 
and  planted  around  it  he  will  see  choice 
flowers  fresh  and  carefully  tended. 
Which  is  happier  now— the  young  girl 
whose  earthly  burial-place  was  beneath 
these  flowers,  or  a  man,  young  and 
handsome  still,  owner  of  a  marble-front 
ed,  richly-appointed  dwelling  on  Arch 
street;  prosperous,  all  the  world  says, 
and  envied  by  all  who  are  struggling  for 
similar  prosperity  ?  He  married  well 
some  time  since — this  young  man — for 
he  was  accepted  in  due  form  by  a  stylish- 
looking  person  about  his  own  age, 
boasting  good  family  connections,  who 
dresses  becomingly,  enters  a  drawing- 
room  gracefully,  receives  her  guests 
with  ease  and  dignity,  and  is  satisfied, 
on  the  whole,  that  she  married  him ; 
for  she  finds  that  twelve  thousand  a 
year,  carefully  managed,  does  tolerably 
well.  The  villa  she  got  him  to  rent  last 
summer  at  Newport  was  rather  small, 
to  be  sure,  and  she  has  to  be  a  little 
careful  about  evening-parties — they  are 
so  frightfully  expensive  now -a- days. 
Nor  has  she  been  to  Europe  yet ;  but 
they  expect  to  rent  their  house  in  Phil 
adelphia,  furnished,  next  summer,  and 
then  they  can  afford  to  go.  Meanwhile, 
she  contrives,  by  well-ordered  economy, 
to  keep  a  brougham  and  never  to  neglect 
18 


an  evening  at  the  opera.  It's  not  amiss, 
take  it  all  together,  she  thinks.  Her  hus 
band  (though  his  poor  mother  knows 
better)  still  inclines  to  believe  that  his 
wife  loves  him,  and  it  may  be  a  year  or 
two  before  he  is  undeceived. 

It  is  to  be  taken  into  account,  how 
ever,  that  if  that  fashionable  husband 
were  to  be  brought  face  to  face  with  an 
evil  deed  of  his  that  would  not  usually 
be  called  murder — if  he  stood  beside 
that  village  grave  and  read,  cut  on  the 
pure  marble,  a  simple  name — his  cheek 
might  blanch,  and  his  heart,  all  selfish 
as  it  is,  might  sink  within  him.  But 
then  he  is  not  obliged,  that  I  know  of, 
to  visit  Chiskauga  at  all ;  or  even  if 
business  should  take  him  there,  he  need 
not  enter  the  village  graveyard.  The 
world  he  lives  in  is  another  world,  hav 
ing  no  connection  with  that  in  which  he 
was  once  doomed  to  vegetate.  Old 
things  have  passed  away :  he  has  left 
his  youthful  follies  behind. 

It  would  be  an  unheard-of  thing — yet 
how  often  is  truth  unheard  of,  and  how 
infinitely,  sometimes,  does  human  con 
ception  of  the  strange  fall  short  of  the 
truth  ! — it  would  be  a  strange,  unheard- 
of  thing  to  say  that  Ellen  Tyler  is  far, 
far  happier  to-day  than  he,  the  falsely- 
styled  favorite  of  fortune,  by  whom  she 
was  cheated  and  betrayed. 

Yet,  withal,  the  man  is  not  worse  than 
hundreds  of  others  on  whom  Society 
smiles — children  of  this  world,  who  look 
upon  riches  as  little  less  than  a  passport 
to  heaven.  Let  him  make  the  most  of 
the  cumber  and  trouble  he  idolizes.  Let 
him  smother,  if  he  can,  under  glitter 
and  gauds,  ugly  recollections  of  lying 
and  cruelty.  Let  him  robe  conscience 
in  purple  and  fine  linen.  He  has  chosen 
his  part.  Of  all  such  it  may  be  said,  as 
in  the  olden  time  it  was  of  the  self-seek 
ers  who  "loved  to  pray  standing  in  the 
synagogues  and  in  the  corners  of  the 
streets:"  "Verily  I  say  unto  you,  They 
have  their  reward." 

What  of  the  humble,  sequestered  fu 
ture  of  the  two  sisters  and  the  husbands 
of  their  choice  ?  They  had  escaped  life's 
worst  perils,  but  they  were  still  young 


274 


BEYOXD    THE   BREAKERS. 


and  inexperienced.  All  earthly  seas, 
even  beyond  the  breakers,  are  visited 
by  storms  ;  and  Goethe  has  wisely  said  : 

"All  beginning  is    hard,  but  hardest  is   household 
beginning."* 

Yet,  through  error  and  trial,  through 
storm  and  sunshine,  they  have  enjoyed 

*  The  line  here  paraphrased  occurs  in  that  charm 
ing  pastoral,  Herman  and  Dorothea,  reading  in  the 
original : 

"  Aller  Anfang  ist  schwer,  am  schwersten  der  Anfang 
der  Wirthschaft." 


a  liberal  portion  of  happiness.  Many 
hours  they  have  spent  when  life  was 
"lovely  and  pleasant,"  and  when  hus 
band  and  wife  felt  they  had  little  left  to 
desire  except  that  one  day — in  death 
undivided — they  might  pass  together  to 
those  regions  where  skies  are  brighter 
and  pleasures  are  higher  than  are  skies 
and  pleasures,  at  their  best  and  bright 
est,  here  below. 


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